


Before the Dawn

by Nevijek



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, Warcraft III, World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst, Eventual Romance, F/M, Older Woman/Younger Man, Second Chances, Snarky Elves, Time Loop, Trauma, World of Warcraft: Battle for Azeroth, World of Warcraft: Battle for Azeroth Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2019-08-25 23:12:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 42,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16670194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nevijek/pseuds/Nevijek
Summary: When Anduin Wrynn is asked by a mysterious voice if he was willing to do anything to achieve his dream of unity and peace, he does not hesitate to agree. Awakening in a different time, Anduin embarks on a journey to redeem the fallen Arthas Menethil and save Sylvanas Windrunner from the terrible fate she suffered at his hands. Unbeknownst to Anduin, the Banshee Queen has her own plans for Arthas and she will stop at nothing to end the man who forever changed her fate.





	1. Desperate Prayer

* * *

 

_“What are you willing to do to save this world, oh child of light?”_

_“Anything.”_

_“When the_ **_time_ ** _comes, you shall be asked once more.”_

* * *

 

Sylvanas Windrunner had won. Perched on the tip of the zeppelin, crimson eyes scanned the field beneath her; it was a vision from hell, a vision far worse than the one her eyes had seen right after Arthas Menethil ripped her soul away from her lifeless body. It was worse than anything he had ever done or forced her to do, and certainly crueler than anything she had ever done, but she had won. The Horde were victors in a war that she had championed and meticulously orchestrated. Sylvanas should have felt something; a sense of victory or closure or perhaps that elusive peace which had been denied her now that she was certain she could delay the inevitable. Instead, she felt nothing. She had long known peace would never come, that closure came too late and slipped through her fingers, yet she had expected something more from her triumph. She should have felt, at the very least, a sense of satisfaction she had been right; she had proven that honor and goodness and the Light, all of those useless things, meant nothing in the face of death. Even heroes could lose what made them and denounce the values which had defined them at the hands of the ruthless.

Sylvanas had not deserved the end Arthas gave her or the curse he bestowed upon her when she had died for the righteous cause of saving her homeland. Dying a hero’s death paid her suffering and damnation. She should have found peace, she should have found rest, but all she had been given was an existence marked by darkness and hatred. So long had she lived in those emotions that she could feel no other, could accept no other sensation, and could not afford to. Arthas had won more than the battle against her homeland; he had succeeded in making her see that he was right. He had made her into the irredeemable monster which now gazed upon her victory with a hollow sense of accomplishment. Had she, in the end, served the purpose for which he'd raised her? Was this scene not eerily similar to the vision which had driven the Lich King to the ultimate cruelty? As she looked over the corpses of the fallen, peered into the eyes of the defeated, and heard the heart-wrenching wailing of the mourners who survived, Sylvanas felt a pang of something close to remorse. Arthas' words haunted her, even then.

_**“It did not have to be this way. Know that your fate, theirs, and that of your people, rests upon your choices."** _

Many had fought with the zealous honor that Saurfang had upheld to his very last breath or the compassion that had characterized Baine until his final moments, yet all had fallen, just as she had warned them. Why was she not satisfied then? Why did it anger her to know that even to their dying breaths they had upheld the honor and that even if she raised them now, they would spit in her face? That they would not accept the truth for what it was? Was it because she had not been able to break their hope as hers had been broken? Ahead of her, out in the distance, Sylvanas found a glimmer, gold and twinkling like a beacon. Something in her twisted, causing pain she’d long forgotten she could even feel. Jaw clenched tightly, lips pressed into a thin line of suppressed anger, Sylvanas squinted against the dying sun over the horizon. She signaled with a flick of her wrist, the zeppelin swerving violently toward the direction she’d pointed. Grabbing onto the ropes, she leaned her body toward that light which had no place in the vision before her.

_I will snuff you out._

The blur of bodies, soldiers, and mourners became increasingly fewer as she moved from the epicenter of their last decisive battle. The remaining few who held breath walked toward him — Anduin Wrynn, fallen King of Stormwind. He looked angelic, no less divine than the holy caricatures which adorned their cathedrals. His radiant shield illuminated him, melting his hair into the rays of the sun. He was surrounded by the wounded, the emotionally broken, and even scared animals flocked to him as if he were some sort of saint who would grant them what they could never have; salvation.

The sight of him burned her eyes.

 _You cannot kill hope,_  Delaryn had said, yet even she had accepted the futility of it. Just as Sylvanas had. Just as they all did. Such was the cruel power of death.

Sylvanas reached for her bow, pulling an arrow from her quiver. She took aim. It would be so easy to shoot him, to put an arrow right between his furrowed brows while he prayed to his precious Light. How could he still remain a fool after all she had done to him, to his people, to the dream she had long shattered? After all the death and defeat that surrounded him, how could he still pray? How could he still have any measure of faith in a power that hadn’t saved him? Sylvanas had done everything she could; only someone who had nothing to lose, nothing to hope for, could ever dream of accomplishing what she had. No good deed or will could have saved her from damnation, no prayer would save him from her arrow. Only death could show this boy what he failed to admit and she would gladly deliver the blow to teach the lesson he refused to learn. If breaking them, burning them, plaguing them, and raising them as the abominations hadn’t broken Anduin Wrynn, death would. There would be no Light to pray to in undeath. She shot the arrow. Not at him, no. Sylvanas let the arrow fly just past him to break that fervent prayer; his bubble flickered out.

Blue eyes shot open. His gaze found hers. She expected to see hatred, rage, but he didn’t look at her that way. He was pitying her. Just as the night elf had. Tears spilled from his eyes, lips quivering with emotion. Her own lips spread into a cruel grin.

“Where is your Light now, little lion?”

Sylvanas nocked another arrow, dark mist and intent swirling around it as she focused her aim. One shot was all that it’d take to kill the beacon of hope and everyone would be there to see it die. Sylvanas wanted him to feel the defeat in his bones, to drown in the desperation of how nothing could save him at that moment. Sylvanas wanted him to feel the impotence of dying at the hands of a monster. Anduin’s lips moved again. She could see the words and hear his soft voice.

“I’m willing to do anything…”

Sylvanas’ fingers twitched and, for the first time in her life, she missed her shot. Hands trembled with rage. Time itself seemed to stop. The zeppelin ceased moving, the wind stopped blowing, and Sylvanas gazed in wide-eyed dismay at the fact that everyone was frozen in place. Darkness crept over the sky, engulfing the sun, the twinkling stars, the field — Anduin Wrynn — and her.

Then, she woke up. As if it had all been a long dream.

Beads of sweat crowned her forehead, mouth dry and throat burning. Sylvanas bolted upright, looking around at the familiar room in Windrunner Spire. Her room. She looked at herself. Her hands, still sun-kissed, shook with utter confusion. She swung her legs over the bed and moved to stare at her reflection in the full-length mirror she had always kept in the corner of the room. Blue eyes stared back at her. She was alive. She was herself. Yet, she remembered everything. Sylvanas ran her hands over her stomach, her face, to ascertain she was really in that body that she had not seen since—

“How is this possible? What is this? Am I dreaming? No… I do not sleep… I—”

“You do sleep, sister. I just never thought I would live to see the day where the Ranger-General would sleep past noon,” said a voice from the door.

“Vereesa?” Sylvanas' lacked the echo of undeath, sounding foreign to her own canted ears. For a moment, she dared not speak. Then, she had questions which demanded answers. "What time— no, what year— what is this...?"

Vereesa’s frown shadowed concern, but she did not immediately show how odd she found her actions. Sylvanas turned to the reflection in the mirror, if only to avoid her sister’s gaze as she tried to make sense of her current situation. This had to be an illusion. She was not alive. She was no longer Lady Moon. She was not the Ranger-General. She was Sylvanas Windrunner, Banshee Queen of the Forsaken, Warchief of the Horde, and the Dark Lady. She was the victor in the war against the Alliance. And she was damned. What sort of mockery was this farce?

“Are you feeling unwell again, sister?”

_Again?_

Vereesa would not understand, could not possibly comprehend, why her being there was so upsetting. She couldn’t explain to her sister, who seemed very much like the sister she had loved in her living heart. Sylvanas felt that affection once more — fresh, burning. She loathed it with all her might.

“Are you still having nightmares?” Vereesa came into the room to settle on her bed. She hugged her knees to herself and set her chin on them. “I miss him too, you know.”

_Lirath. So… the Second War has passed._

That meant Arthas had not yet come, that the Scourge had not invaded, that all was still blissfully peaceful in the world she found herself in. Sylvanas could barely press down that feeble hope that all of this could mean something more than a cruel illusion meant to torment her, to remind her what she had never forgotten she had lost. Sylvanas hated that the hope she had long buried was somehow there — nearly intact, in conflict with her conviction of its uselessness. She reasoned she must have fallen unconscious on the zeppelin. Perhaps that darkness which engulfed them had made it impossible for the goblins to steer. She could have crashed. She could be caught in some limbo between her undeath and her final death, waiting for her val’kyr to claim her banshee soul and breath it back into her undead body. Sylvanas could only think this a temporary nuisance.

_I will awaken from this._

“Are you sure you are well?”

“I’m fine,” she snapped.

Vereesa winced at the tone. Sylvanas had always been prideful and often militant, but in life, she had been far kinder, especially toward her sisters, especially to Vereesa. She was her baby sister, her pride in many ways. She was, however, no longer the Sylvanas she loved. She could not be. Hurting this illusion was nothing when she had already been disappointed and hurt by the real one. Vereesa had already made it very clear she would never be able to love who Sylvanas had become. She did not apologize for her brusqueness, did not acknowledge fault, and went about her room ignoring her.

“Lady Moon, please look at me. Are you—”

“Not now, Vereesa. As you’ve noted, I am late. It would reflect poorly on my station to waste more time reminiscing over things I cannot change. Lirath is… gone.”

Her heart, which she had forgotten could physically hurt like a festering wound, lurched at the thought of her brother. Humanity was certainly a damned thing. Vereesa came and folded her in an embrace. Sylvanas bristled and stiffened at the touch. It had been far too long since she’d been held so tenderly. It made her sick. It made her want to lash out — she should have — but she did not.

“You don’t have to act tough in front of me, Sylvanas. We only have each other now.”

Sylvanas would have laughed if she could overcome her mortification. How little those words weighed now that she knew their useless promise. How it angered her that she couldn't bring herself to push Vereesa away, that something about being trapped in that living sensation made her lean into the touch when she was seething inside because of it. How she wanted to scream at Vereesa that she was a hypocrite who had abandoned her when she had taken the chance to open what had been left of her heart to welcome her back in it. Stepping out of the embrace with a grunt, she moved back to gather her armor. Holding the pieces in her hand again and going through the familiar return of slipping into it — first the leather, then clasping the mail pieces, and finally her cloak and weapons. To behold once more the regal image of her former self, to barely recognize the reflection staring at her, as it had been so long since she had gazed upon it.

Her sister, ever perceptive, moved toward the entrance knowing whatever possessed her needed solitude. “Never forget; I am here.”

Only when her sister had gone, when she heard her footsteps descend the spiraled stairs, did Sylvanas allow herself to kick a chair in anger. She wanted to tear through her closet, claw through all those pretty dresses. She wanted to toss her favorite hairpins, the paints with which she had accentuated her beautiful face, and finally to shatter the mirror which reflected a lie. Her thoughts raced back to the priest, to his prayer, to those final moments before the darkness took her triumph.

“He said he would do anything,” Sylvanas hissed, unable to forget the look in his eyes as he’d prayed with so much fervor. “What did you promise your precious Light?”

Sylvanas froze.

“No. I refuse to believe it. It cannot possibly be—”

Though anger simmered in her, beneath it sprouted hope like a pesky weed. That useless emotion took hold of her, even though she knew it was useless. The illusion in the mirror was just that, another cruel trick of fate. Her body, her life, her people, all of that was long gone.

 

* * *

  _You said you would do anything, but I wonder if you are prepared to_ **_lose_ ** _everything?_

_Much I have already lost. If it could mean peace, I would give everything up._

_Including your life as you know it?_

_For peace… for the salvation of my people… yes._

* * *

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I don't post this now, I'll never do it later. It's been _many_ years since I've written fanfiction, but the events in **Battle for Azeroth** (so far) have left me wanting. So, I've revisited an old idea. Here we go. A long ride. A very slow burn.


	2. Beacon of Light

* * *

Anduin Wrynn first heard _the voice_ when he stood by the portal to Darnassus during the evacuation of the Burning of Teldrassil, an occasion where so many night elves had perished in what he considered to be one of the most horrific ways to die. In that moment, overwhelmed with disbelief, grief, and utter guilt for the lives being taken, he hadn’t given it much thought; he had believed it was part of his consciousness reminding him that he, bound by the Light, owed his people — and all members in the Alliance — justice and honor. It had seemed like a rhetorical question; he’d always been determined to do _anything_ for peace, and unlike many great leaders before him, Anduin had hoped, in vain, to achieve it with words and not bloodshed. He had seen enough goodness in the people of Azeroth, regardless of faction or race or condition, to know that peace wasn’t the foolish dream of a naive young man. All that was needed was tolerance, respect, and time. People needed time to prove no ill intentions were harbored, that the present generation of the Horde was not the same as the one who had killed their ancestors, and in turn that they weren’t all the intolerant people the Horde had come to know them as. A united world, as they’d often come together to face forces beyond their own, was not impossible.

Sylvanas Windrunner, however, did everything in her power to destroy that hope, to shatter that possibility, to prove his dream wrong _._ For countless nights before their defeat, Anduin had stayed up trying to get into her head, to put himself in her shoes, to come to a marginal understanding of what drove her to do the things she did. She claimed she wanted peace and security for her Horde, but refused to attain it diplomatically when it was within reach. It had been easier, seemingly, to slay and trample them and he couldn’t understand why _._ The events at Arathi Highlands demonstrated that she was unscrupulous, but it had also shown a fundamental weakness; Sylvanas couldn’t accept the thought of losing her people. Thus, though he’d told Genn that he believed her lost, a part of him hoped that there was still something of that courageous woman who had given her life to stall the advancement of the death knight Arthas on Quel'Thalas. Lor’themar claimed that had it not been for her sacrifice, their race would have been wiped out that day. Such selfless desire to protect her people had to remain in some part of her.

He wanted to believe her enraged reaction to the thought of losing the Forsaken was, at core, out of a love for them; the Alliance had snubbed and rejected them, so she wanted to save them that pain, and certainly some could _not_ reconcile with the thought of undeath where she’d been proven right to suspect. From Vereesa, he knew, that Sylvanas had dared to hope for love again at the prospect of reuniting with her sister in undeath, but having perceived her refusal as betrayal, had since abandoned all thought of ever trusting the living again. Anduin wondered if that had been the beginning of an irreversible change, though the cruelty of the Banshee Queen seemed to have existed before even then. Sylvanas had become like the very man who had made her into the Banshee Queen. It had been her choice to walk down that path after being freed of his control. When Mathias Shaw delivered inconclusive proof that Sylvanas could have orchestrated the events at the Wrathgate, Anduin could not deny the actions were hardly different than her decision to blight Alliance and Horde alike at the battle for Lordaeron. She had proven in the war that the means justified the ends.

Anduin could have perhaps understood, though never agreed with, her motivations behind the Wrathgate; her desire to see Arthas dead at whatever cost had been secret to no one, but what motivator had made her call the order to plague her army and his? She only seemed intent on winning, but what? She had destroyed the very city she called home just so they would not have it. She didn’t care about it, as he did for Stormwind and its people. Such actions were only taken by someone too far gone from honor and righteousness, someone who, like Arthas, had abandoned their humanity. It was then that Anduin realized what Genn said was true. They were not facing a scorned spirit, forever changed by Arthas; they fought against death. Sylvanas was the incarnation of death. She was endlessly more fearsome and driven than the Lich King, wholly unstoppable and unshakable, powered by Azerite and devastating plagues and her _will;_  a will that had been strong enough to persist even under the control of the Lich King.

There was no way for Anduin to reach her.

If he were to have the tiniest hope of changing her mind, he would have to go back to the beginning. He would have to appeal to the woman she had been in life and such a thing was impossible. Even if there was a chance to go back, he would be nothing more than a prince-child, no different from the boy-king Sylvanas mocked. She would not listen to a child and he could no sooner reach Silvermoon than Prince Arthas Menethil and persuade him to hold steadfast to the Light. He wondered how much heartache and lives could have been spared if those two had fought on the same side, for the same cause. It pained Anduin to think that the single choice of a man had such far-reaching repercussions that lasted way beyond his reign of terror.

Desperate Anduin had been, when the voice came to him a second time. Staring into her hateful crimson eyes, at the brink of dying by her black arrow, Anduin had agreed to give up everything if the vision before him could change. It wasn’t because he valued his life, no. Anduin valued all the lives that had been lost and would be lost if she ruled over Azeroth. To change that battle — to stop it from happening in the first place — he would have gladly given up his very life if it could afford the world’s salvation. In the darkness that followed that decisive moment, Anduin believed he _had_ died. He floated through the vast unknown in a dreamless state. Coldness seeped into his bones, chilling him, but he wouldn’t despair again. He had given his life away gladly. He only hoped that the world he had left was somehow changed and that the hellish horror his eyes had last seen could be erased from history. If he had to linger in this emptiness forever, he only prayed it had not been for naught.

“Anduin!”

He did not open his eyes to the sight of Sylvanas Windrunner or the battle or even the afterlife. He gazed at a clear blue sky. It was a warm summer day. He squinted against the brilliant sun, throwing an arm over his eyes.

_Where am I?_

He didn’t feel different. It felt like no time had passed between this moment and the final battle. There was heavy exhaustion in his bones, in every sore muscle, as the toll of the fighting finally settled on him. A face loomed over him, blocking the sun. He moved his arm away to see a young man with loose, golden hair staring at him with a half smirk. He extended a hand to Anduin. His gauntlets were as massive as his pauldrons, the plate was silver and rimmed in gold, his girdle the gleaming face of a lion and his blue cloak fluttering with the breeze. Anduin’s eyes widened like saucers.

“Arthas?”

The man canted his head. Anduin should have moved, should have scooted away, possibly ran, but all he could do was stare in perplexed horror as the bemusement left the other man’s face to be replaced by a worried scowl. Arthas knelt before him. A million thoughts raced through Anduin’s mind and none of them made any measure of sense. He started to feel the tingling of panic fraying his mind and he knew it wouldn’t bode well to lose his composure in such a foreign and incomprehensible moment.

_Do not be afraid._

It was that voice again. Anduin glanced around if only to make sure the voice didn’t belong to another dead person, that this wasn’t some sort of afterlife reunion. They were on a farmstead full of beautiful, majestic horses. He did not recognize the place, but considering that Arthas was with him, it had to be somewhere in Lordaeron.

“Jorum would not forgive me if something happened to his only son,” he said. “How can it be you were a better fighter when we were children than now?”

He could not find his voice, could _not_ comprehend what was happening. There was no childhood of his in which Arthas had fought with him. There was no shared past between the two, not like this. Anduin saw the wooden swords cast aside and understood that Arthas was trying to lighten the mood which Anduin had evidently dampened by apparently passing out mid sword fight. Perhaps if Anduin _were_ the person Arthas confused him with, he might have even laughed. He’d never been a skilled warrior and that hadn’t changed in this alternate space that confused him.

“Are you well, Anduin?”

The words slipped before he could reason them. “Am I… dead?”

“Not yet, my friend, and hopefully not for a long time. If I have anything to do with it, you and I will be old men laughing at the thought of these days.”

Friends. They were _friends._ Anduin tried to remain calm and focus. Arthas mentioned he was the son of a man named Jorum. It rang a distant bell in his mind, though it didn’t correspond with the truth. With as many books as he’d read, all the history he’d studied, all of the tales his father had shared, which he vividly remembered, Anduin should have been able to place the name, but in the fog of confusion that followed his current predicament, he simply couldn’t.

Anduin was, after all, in the presence of Prince Arthas Menethil, when he still identified as Anduin Llane Wrynn. He should not have found himself in the presence of Arthas. Much less this Arthas, still young and untainted by the powers of Ner’zhul.

_This must be an illusion... or not._

The voice had asked if he was willing to lose everything. Anduin wondered if that also included his physical identity. He studied his hands and was pleased to recognize his fingers. He touched his face and felt that it was, indeed, the same face he’d always known. He wasn’t the son of Varian Wrynn or even a noble, but he would recognize himself in the mirror and that was small comfort in the face of such startling changes. He was no longer a prince, but the son of a common man. If this was somehow the second chance he had begged the Light to give him, Anduin would gladly relinquish the privileges he’d been born within his first life.

“I knew that sparring with you while clad in full armor was a bad idea, but you assured me you could handle it, in fact, you wagered you could have me on my rear!”

Under different circumstances, Anduin might have inquired as to what he’d lost in such a bet, but he dared not retort without understanding what kind of relationship they had. Arthas Menethil was a prince after all.

“I should not have indulged you, my friend.” He placed a hand on Anduin’s bare shoulder. “Your mother will be sick with worry if she sees you looking so pale again.”

“My mother?”

“Yes, indeed. Vara is kind and sweet, and she respects me because of who I am, but she isn’t afraid to give me a piece of her mind when it comes to you.”

At the risk of sounding crazy, Anduin still had to ask. “Where are we?”

“Your home,” said Arthas, but after seeing his confusion, he added. “Balnir Farmstead.”

Anduin knew that name. The Balnir Farmstead had been renowned for their horse breeding. Invincible had been born there. Anduin’s father told him that Arthas had taken him to see the foal shortly after arriving at Lordaeron following the fall of Stormwind. This meant that Anduin was in Tirisfal Glades and knowing where he was would be the beginning of deciphering its significance.

“Are you having those spells again?”

Anduin furrowed his brows. “Spells, you say?”

“You don’t need to hide it from me, Anduin. I know very well you still have trouble remembering certain things after the incident with Invincible. I know that sometimes you forget where you are and even _who_ you are and that sometimes you retreat into yourself and speak to no one. You didn’t recognize your own home just now. Your mother told me all about it. Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?”

Anduin absorbed the information. It couldn’t be more convenient. The Light was with him if it had scripted this life in that manner. If Anduin was known to suffer from these spells, then traversing this journey would not be as difficult as it could have been if he would have had to recall a life he hadn’t lived.

“I shouldn’t worry you with such trivialities, Your Majesty.”

“I am now certain you’re most definitely unwell, Anduin! You know better than to call me that when it’s just the two of us.”

“Perhaps I do feel a little unwell,” Anduin conceded.

Arthas sighed. “After that incident, even your manner of speaking changed. It was almost as if I were talking to another noble. I mean no offense, but your way of speaking before then, though cordial and groomed, lacked the polish with which I, and others like me, have been raised with.”

“I must have startled my parents greatly.”

“You worried more than just your parents, Anduin.”

“I apologize. I don’t remember much... I must be having one of those spells.”

Arthas plopped down beside him with some difficulty given his armor. He admired the grazing horses, a melancholic look in his deep blue eyes. Anduin paid close attention to the young prince, noting that Sylvanas hadn’t been wrong to call a likeness between them. How she must have hated looking at his face, at his armor, so similar to the glorious ensemble of this mighty paladin!

_Sylvanas!_

Anduin almost said her name out loud.

_She must be here too. I have to—_

“I am not perfect, Anduin. As noble blooded as I am, as kind as I try to be, I think I’m plagued by pride. I have not spoken of this to anyone, not even to you, whom I’ve always found it easy to confide in. I wonder if it’s because you have never judged me or thought less of me for my rather selfish confessions?”

Anduin was forced to focus on the prince. It was in his best interest to understand as much of this life as he could. He dared to comment, if only because it felt comfortable speaking to him.

“A thought itself isn’t evil, it’s putting the thought to action which can be evil. The fact that you recognize your flaw and wish to amend it means you’re on the right path already.”

Arthas smirked. “Spoken like a true priest!”

“Some would argue that wasn’t very priest-like.”

“Perhaps that’s why I like you. You have a way with words. You speak the truth without preaching,” he said. “There are things I feel I can’t even share with Varian, who is almost like a brother to me. Though we share the same destiny and burden, ruling our people with honor and wisdom, sometimes I think he can’t understand me.”

Anduin felt a pang of grief at the mention of the only man he would recognize as a father. To know that Varian was alive in this place brought him nearly to tears. He sniffled and pushed the thoughts away, knowing they would be hard to explain to someone who already regarded him with cautious concern. If he was there, as the son of Jorum Balnir, then he must have met Varian Wrynn in his childhood, too. Arthas probably brought him to the farm, as he had before. He hoped it was so. The thought that he might see his father again, living and strong, was more than enough to help him through the emotions which stirred painfully in his heart.

“It was my pride which caused the accident where I almost lost Invincible. I knew the weather was bad to attempt that jump, but I believed myself a superior rider who could manage it,” Arthas confessed. “Had it not been for you, I would have had to kill my steed to spare it the pain of the consequences of _my_ actions _._  I will never forget the sight of you hunched over Invincible, eyes full of tears, as you prayed so earnestly for healing. Even I could not bring myself to that degree of pleading for an animal I have loved like I’ve loved my own family.”

It sounded like something Anduin would do. He had been chided for thinking he could save everyone, but that had never stopped him from trying, sometimes to his detriment.

“I had never seen the Light respond to anyone as it did with you, Anduin. The face your father made when he saw Invincible rise, unhurt and strong, was no more astonished than my own. Your mother often thanks me for what she considers charity in recommending you to the Church of the Holy Light, but I think it is the world who should consider itself lucky to count a blessed soul like yours in the priesthood. Your humility is favored by the Light.”

“I hardly think I’m worthy of such praise.”

“You are, Anduin. You saved more than my horse. You saved me as well. Witnessing such a miracle is what inspired me to join the Knights of the Silver Hand. I thought if I could only have a third of the faith you do, I would make a King whose pride would not lead him astray. I still hope for this each day. It has not been easy. As a royal I was disciplined, yes, but pride was not necessarily viewed as something ill to have. It is, or rather, it can be, and I want to be a good king, Anduin. Sometimes I feel like I won’t be. Sometimes it feels like I’ll never live up to my father’s great legacy.”

Anduin understood this extremely well. When his father had perished at the hands of the Legion, he had felt wholly unprepared and unfit to fill the role of King as his father had. He felt like he could never be even half of the man his father was. It was an emotion he still wrestled with and perhaps always would.

“My father once told me that I shouldn’t aspire to be like him. He said I should be myself,” Anduin said. “He told me I should only use his legacy as a compass that will guide me through my own journey.”

Arthas gave him a pensive look. “I didn’t know Jorum had such profound thoughts.”

Anduin bit his tongue. He had to get better about remembering his place in this world. “I didn’t mean to lecture you. I am sure your advisors have imparted greater wisdom—”

“Varian once told me something similar,” said Arthas. “So it would seem your father shares a viewpoint with a king.”

_If only you knew._

“I have to thank you, Anduin. I feel so indebted to you. My horse didn’t perish, but you were never the same after that. Uther believed it was because you lacked training and the strain of that miracle forever changed you.”

“Please… you don’t owe me anything.”

Arthas lifted his hand. “No, I do.”

“Then consider the debt paid with your recommendation of me.”

“Hardly paid, Anduin. If you had not been worth your salt, Archbishop Alonsus Faol would not have heeded my petition. I assure you that your acceptance is all your merit. He saw something in you which he hasn’t seen in a while, not even in me.”

_Alonsus Faol!_

To know that he would meet him here, while he was still alive, that Anduin might be able to stop him from dying the way he did, that he might stopeverything from happening the way it did, made him hold steadfast to the hope that this was the chance he’d prayed for.

_And Sylvanas!_

He allowed himself to think of her again. She had to be there too. If everyone was as they had been, except him, then she should be the Ranger-General of Silvermoon.

_What if she remembers?_

He needed to see with his own eyes if Sylvanas Windrunner was as oblivious as Arthas. Anduin knew he would have to make it to Silvermoon, he would have to find her, speak with her. How? He didn’t know. How could a commoner reach her? He supposed it was part of the challenge. He supposed this would test his resolve to change everything.

“You are thinking of a woman, aren’t you?” Arthas chuckled. “No use in hiding it. I am told I get the same look when I think of Jaina.”

_Jaina! I have to reach her too… I have to tell her—_

No, he couldn’t tell her anything. What could he say? That the man she loved would become someone terrible if left to his own devices? _Could_ Arthas be changed? Could Anduin really stop him?

Or was this a lesson that things which were fated couldn’tbe changed?

_It doesn’t matter._

Anduin would fight. He was determined, more than ever, to make a difference. Whatever this realm was, a dream or illusion or more, he was there for a reason. He had to try _._ Part of that meant he had to find Sylvanas Windrunner.

Arthas nudged him. “Who is she?”

Anduin felt embarrassed because he was thinking of a woman, but it wasn’t what Arthas thought. “It’s nothing.”

“You’re an open book, Anduin. It is written all over your face.”

“It’s not what you think,” he assured. There had been no time during the heat of the war to think of Sylvanas as anything other than a force to be reckoned with. “It’s just that I thought I might like to travel a bit before I begin training. When will that be again?”

Arthas only lifted a brow. “You would be the first man to get such an expression over the prospect of seeing a different landscape.”

Anduin smiled in spite of himself. “You did say I have become strange since then…”

“And now you’re making a joke,” Arthas laughed. “This is more like you! Perhaps what I’m seeing is just the color returning to your face. When you came to, you looked as if you’d seen a ghost! You seemed terrified of me. I was really concerned. You had never regarded me in such a way. It was disconcerting.”

“I apologize for that,” said Anduin. “I confused you for someone else.”

That wasn’t entirely untrue. The man before him was not the Lich King, not yet, and that was all that mattered. That was what made the difference.

“Where is this place you’ve planned an excursion? Don’t worry about training. You have plenty of time for a decent holiday before the grueling work ahead of you. Tell me, then. I can facilitate your passage to almost anywhere. I would accompany you, but…”

“Jaina is coming.”

His face lit up. “You remembered, at least.”

Anduin only guessed based on his expression; it was terribly endearing. Anduin paused a moment. It was so strange to feel such a familiarity to a man he had grown to regard as an enemy, to someone who was essentially a stranger. To see him, and converse, as if they were friends — as if Anduin had always known him came so natural it was startling.

“You might object…”

“Try me.”

“I wanted to go to Silvermoon.”

Arthas was surprised. “Is that so?”

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Anduin. “I understand it may not be wise considering relationships have been cold, but they have only removed themselves from the Alliance of Lordaeron, not declared themselves our enemy.”

Arthas regarded him with a smile. “Our enemy, you said. I feel pride in knowing you already consider yourself part of our Alliance. When I become King, I want you to be a member of my council, Anduin. I need people I can trust. I know I’ll face opposition, but if you’re willing to withstand their scrutiny, I’m willing to insist on my choice. Will I count with your allegiance then?”

Anduin didn’t hesitate. “You already have it, Your Majesty.”

Arthas was pleased. “If you’re truly serious about going to Silvermoon, I can arrange it. Before you object, let me remind you that I promised the Archbishop I would personally escort you on the agreed day, and knowing your penchant for attracting trouble, and ascertaining for myself you’ve become a terrible fighter, it is only for the best that you let me do this for you.”

Anduin chuckled to himself. “I won’t object if you insist.”

“I do insist. Promise you will wait. Calia had spoken about taking a diplomatic trip there under the guise of a holiday, and I would feel better knowing you could accompany her.”

Anduin gave him a rueful smile. “Even though I’m a terrible fighter?”

Arthas nodded. “Apart from my family and mentors, I trust you the most.”

Anduin realized that it wasn’t an exaggeration. Whatever memories existed between them that Anduin was unaware of had left enough of an impression on Arthas to entrust him so wholly. Anduin hoped such trust could prove useful in the events that would pass. The inevitable might happen as it had, but the choices didn’t have to be the same.

“Calia has been corresponding with Lady Liadrin about a visit for months, so it would not come as a surprise to make due on the invitation extended. Although, I confess a certain curiosity for your wish to go there, given you never spoke of having an interest in elves before.”

“Though I know it would be impossible for someone like me to see the Sunwell,” said Anduin. “Just knowing that it is close might lift my spirits and prepare me for training.”

“Why do I feel there’s something you’re not telling me?” Arthas shook his head. “I will send word to you in two days. If Calia cannot make the trip, I will find a way to send you there. Promise me you will not go alone.”

“I will wait for your word then.”

Anduin would have to find a way to survive in a household of strangers, who would expect him to behave like a son, for two days. It seemed simple enough, but he also knew that it was crucial to play the role well if he wanted to succeed. He couldn’t help thinking of Sylvanas and seeing her again under such different circumstances. If he could befriend her too and somehow earn her trust, then he would be able to do more when the time came to face the Scourge. She could become an ally and he could ensure that she didn’t face the same fate as before.

_What if she knows?_

That thought made him exceedingly uneasy. It was likely that she would be no wiser to the future than Arthas, but if she was aware of it, then it was only a matter of time before she made her way to Lordaeron to kill Arthas Menethil. If she was still the same hateful woman whose eyes he’d last seen as King Anduin Llane Wrynn, then he would have to stop her. He couldn’t let her kill him, just like he couldn’t allow Arthas to become the Lich King.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lore in this "timeline" will differ. As is evident by the fact that I've placed Anduin as "Jarim Balnir" — a boy Arthas used to play with as a child at the Balnir Farmstead (where Invincible was born.) I combine various sources as a base: the novels, short stories, the game, as well as my own perception of the characters and their motivations. I do realize this may not be to everyone's taste, and I respect that, but I can only tell the story my way.
> 
> Thanks for reading! 


	3. Twist of Fate

* * *

 

The dream had been marginally tolerable because Sylvanas had been certain that at some point she would awaken from it and be done with the forced unconscious reminiscing. Unable to keep with the farce that she was the same Sylvanas she had been in life, she never reported for duty. Instead, she roamed through the forest, visited villages under disguise, and observed her people. She resolved to return to Windrunner Spire late that evening, hoping Vereesa had long gone to bed, but her sister waited for her by the light of a single candle in her bedroom. She asked what troubled Sylvanas and urged her to share the burden. In life, she might have begrudgingly obliged. Sylvanas had once been foolish enough to believe that their blood ties were unbreakable, that Vereesa would neverbetray her, but Sylvanas knew her sister’s eventual choice and that made her presents attempts at being nurturing all the more disgusting. Sylvanas had been so caught up in her displeasure that she had missed the oddity of finding her sister there, to begin with. Considering the time, Vereesa should have been gone, married to Rhonin. Sylvanas knew dreams could be strange and vastly different from memories, but there was something about the nightmare which unnerved her. Her sister’s prodding never died out and it only served to exasperate Sylvanas to the point where she opted to sleep on a tree branch than under the same roof with Vereesa. There, under the sparkling stars, Sylvanas willed — no, she commanded — that whatever force was at work returned her where she belonged. She wanted to rise as the Banshee Queen, victorious over the Alliance, and ready to build the world she had longed for.

_I have no time to play these games!_

The force must have had a vastly different concept of where she belonged, for Sylvanas remained trapped in her living body when she opened her eyes again. This could not be a dream! The anger she felt upon realizing she was hopelessly doomed to relive her demise was enough to send her on a rampage through the forest. Though she darted with graceful swiftness and agility, she lacked the tireless speed she had as an undead. There, deep in the forest, in a perfect clearing far away from everyone, she nocked arrow after arrow, shrieking with rage as she brought every bird in the sky to its untimely death. It was here that she had trained her brother, it was here where _she_ had shot her first arrows, and where she had returned whenever she felt suffocated or betrayed. When she emptied her quiver, Sylvanas collapsed, her body depleted in aching fire. The dead birds reminded her of herself. Free as they had been, powerful as their wings were, they could not overcome the speed or accuracy of her shots. Arthas had not only been stronger, but he’d also been merciless. Arthas had abandoned everything that had once made him human and because of that decision, he had won over them. Honor, as she’d once told Saurfang, meant nothing to a corpse and that was the first lesson Arthas had taught her, one she would never forget.

Her gloved hands clawed at the earth as she contemplated her predicament. Every aspect of being alive made her seethe. The gaping hole in her stomach when she hungered, the exhaustion that came with exertion, the need for sleep, but most of all Sylvanas loathed feelingher heart. The incessant beating of that traitorous organ was a reminder that she was fragile, stoppable, and vincible. Being alive made her weak and pathetic. Hot tears spilled from her eyes. She slapped them away with a growl, smearing dirt all over her cheeks. She felt so impotent and vulnerable; she wasn’t used to having those feelings and fears anymore. She had long been rid of her living failings and shortcomings. Death had taken everything from her and now she’d been returned what she least wanted from life; the frailty of it.

Screaming had been the only release Arthas had left her within undeath and it was all she had at that moment. Her wails tore through the quiet forest, and had she not known better, she could have sworn that it was tarnished by the banshee echo. At some point, her voice gave out, and her anger burst, replaced by a familiar nothingness. Sylvanas did not know how much time had passed, but the sun was fading in the horizon when she made it out of the woods. This land which stretched beyond what her eyes could see was Quel'Thalas. The scents, the sounds, the people — it was all as it had been so long ago. No illusion could be so masterfully crafted or dream so perfectly detailed. Sylvanas was alive. Blood coursed through her veins, her lungs inhaled air, and her skin was capable of feelingthe change of time and seasons once more; no longer was she cold to the touch, flesh-tinted by death, her heart unmoving. In her mind, she was still the Banshee Queen of the Forsaken, but inside also lived the echo of Sylvanas Windrunner, Ranger-General of Silvermoon.

Was this cruel twist of fate divine justice? Would they let her have what she had lost, only to take it away from her again? Was this her punishment? No, it could not be. Sylvanas knew very well what awaited her inthe end. This wasn’t it. Her present torture was colored by a different sort of cruelty; the lie of a second chance. Staring at her reflection by the river, she knew that the woman staring back at her would be horrified by all the things she had done as the Banshee Queen. The woman she had been before believed in honor and integrity. Those values, she’d learned, had no place in undeath, and they had done very little for her in life. Sylvanas would not repent of her sins if they should be weighed as such.

The foolish Anduin Wrynn had made many great promises of peace, but he was only a little lion amongst hyenas. With a rabid dog whispering over his shoulder and allies who believed the entirety of the Horde was better off dead, it was only a matter of time before they convinced the impressionable cub that war was the best and only way to ensure the survival of _their_ people, and that to accomplish his perfect peace, the Horde had to be eradicated. Sylvanas had given them reasons to hate her, and her Horde, but that sentiment had been a seed in their hearts long giving fruit. It had always been so easy for the Alliance to justify their actions on a misguided sense of righteousness that was born from an intolerance of anything they could not — would not — understand. People always found an excuse to support their ideas and justify their decisions. Sylvanas had been no different. She too had used the Forsaken to achieve her goals because their endurance meant her own longevity.

_And now you imprison me in my old life because I succeeded._

Sylvanas would not accept being a passive spectator in this plot. If the force at work thought she would be a pawn, then it would be disappointed in her refusal to cooperate. Sylvanas went to the ancient libraries and looked through books, consulted archives, sifted through mage and warlock tomes, even priest inscriptions, looking for an explanation to what was happening to her. Tempted she had been to make her way to Dalaran to seek an audience with Kael’thas Sunstrider to question him about the concept of time travel or time manipulation. Mages touched on those arts, but she knew the true masters were elsewhere. The Bronze Dragonflight, particularly Nozdormu, and the Infinites, could have a hand in her present state of being, though she could not find a reason for their intervention. Kael’thas, however, might see the hypothetical situation she would present him from a different perspective. He had always been inquisitive, the sort to think beyond the bounds of reality, or at least beyond the logic of those who might consider certain theories insane. It was that kind of genius which she needed, but she knew it was unwise to move recklessly when she had been acting out of her wits. There was also no guarantee she would be permitted to see him or that he would want to meet with her. Their past was complicated, at best.

_I have to move carefully._

Sylvanas had to accept that she was no longer the Dark Lady, who did what she wanted, when she wanted, without giving explanations to anyone. At this moment, she was the Ranger-General of Silvermoon and she owed respect to her station. Already she had alarmed her sister and made Lor’themar suspicious. There was also the matter that certain things were notas they had been. Those deviations made her apprehensive about the time she traversed. If she continued to act beyond herself and her behavior was brought to question, at best she would be forced on mandatory leave, and at worst she would be demoted or removed. Though she had her title and nobility to fall back on, what Sylvanas needed was power. She needed her rangers and spies — the trust of her people — to protect them from what was to come. She could not fail them. Quel'Thalas would not fall.

_Neither will I._

With her head cooled and thoughts cleared, Sylvanas accepted the moment as a chance to rectify the past and do what she had failed to do the first time; kill Arthas Menethil. She could think of no reason why she was there, with the memory of her former life, if not to change everything. If it was up to her, the young prince would not live to purge Stratholme, much less wield Frostmourne. Anger could be an excellent motivator, but it was volatile, and it had burned her before. She would overcome the desire to march into Lordaeron and shoot a dozen arrows into his skull. As much as he deserved to be skinned alive and hung up for the vultures to feast upon, she knew she had to be subtle. Cold cunning had always been her specialty, even in life. Arthas would not be an easier target to eliminate just because he had yet to possess Frostmourne. He was still a prince and a paladin. Sylvanas was strong and confident in her abilities, but without the empowerment of her banshee form or her val’kyrs she was mortal.

_I only have one shot._

A direct confrontation was also impossible. She could not afford to involve Quel'Thalas in her revenge unless she could successfully prove a declaration of war was merited by the threat Arthas posed. That would be difficult to prove, not before it was too late. Her best recourse was subtlety and for that, she would need to employ diplomacy, and quickly. As much as she hated to consider the thought of engaging the House of Menethil, it would be the easiest way to get to Arthas without raising suspicions. Sylvanas didn’t have to kill him with an arrow or a sword; she remembered the most potent formulas for plagues and poisons. Not even a formidable paladin could escape the vilest of her concoctions nor would his holiest priests be able to save him from it. She might not be able to torture him as he deserved, but Sylvanas could ensure he had a most painful death possible. She wanted him to feel the same agony she had felt when he tore her soul from her impaled body.

_I will make you pay for all the lives you took that day, including mine._

“Sylvanas.”

She grabbed her bow and nocked an arrow, having replenished her quiver, and pointed it at the head of none other than her second in command. Lor’themar raised his arms in a sign of peace, but she was tempted to keep pretending she didn’t recognize him.

“I know your reflexes are excellent, but you heard my voice. Is there a particular reason why you point an arrow at my forehead?”

“For a moment I thought you might have been a troll in disguise.”

“So close to Silvermoon? Since it looks like you’ve frolicked with swine, I’ll forgive your obvious lie. I never thought I would see the day where the vain Sylvanas would walk around with dirt crusting her perfect face, yet here she is. Did you win, at least?”

“Your attempts at humor are as appalling as your taste in robes.”

“I am _almost_ offended you don’t note the sincerity of my concern and interest.”

“I doubt you have followed me to the stables at this hour to exchange idle banter.”

“I was coming back from a party when I saw you.”

She tilted her head to the side. “Without fashioning one of your atrocious robes?”

Lor’themar pulled out a brown sack from behind him and dumped the punctured body of a raven in front of her boots. Sylvanas’ eyes slid back up to his, impassive.

“Are you gifting me a dead crow? I would say I prefer fine silk, but you would choose a gaudy pattern that I would sooner burn than wear.”

“And I would say your jokes are worse than mine, but I think you already know that.”

Sylvanas adjusted the saddle on her hawkstrider. It was pointless to deny what he had evidently witnessed. “Why did you follow me?”

“I have a better question,” he said. “Why were you unable to notice I was tracking you?”

This was something she wanted to know as well. Sylvanas had not perceived him at all, but she would be damned before admitting that to him.

“I hope you have not taken a liking to follow me around. Next time, my reflexes might really come before my recognition.”

“Are you listening to yourself, Sylvanas? You threaten me?” Lor’themar took a deep breath. “Whatever it is, please tell me. You know you can trust me.”

“Trust you?” Sylvanas scoffed. “Is that so? Somehow, I doubt it! Considering you let your pride stand in the way when I—”

“Am I to understand your actions are because of Marris, then?”

“I was only gone for a day, Lor’themar. Let it go.”

“I will not let it go. I thought you would not forego your duties unless you had a very powerful reason, but if Marris is that reason, then I am wholly disappointed in you.”

“How dare you?” Sylvanas clenched her fists. “Need I remind you where your place is? In case you have forgotten, Lor’themar, it’s directly _beneath_ me.”

His sneer glowed under the moonlight. “I think Marris would object to that greatly.”

Sylvanas kicked the corpse of the raven aside and closed the distance between them in two long strides. She curled a chunk of his long hair around her wrist, pulling him close so that he could look her straight in the eyes.

“Do nottest my patience, Lor’themar. I have returned the blow tenfold to those who have offered far less provocation than this.”

His eyes searched hers. “Tell me I was not wrong to defend your position when they told me dismissing Marris would prove you were compromised by him.”

Eyes narrowed, she hissed. “What did you say?”

Lor’themar pried himself from her hands. She let him go. What he confessed made her want to step back so that he could not see her utter shock. Nathanos had never been dismissed and she had never been deemed compromised by favoring him. Nathanos had proven his skills and Sylvanas had chosen him for his unparalleled talent. Many had tried to distort her motivations, many had opposed his inclusion in their ranks and tried to revoke her nomination, but they hadn’t succeeded. In the end, she had been given the power to make that call and to sort her people as she saw fit. What Lor’themar said was an utter deviation from the past she knew, which only added to the already unsettling fact that Vereesa was there. What more could be different in this time and space? What other twists awaited her discovery?

“I understand you are upset over losing him, but he volunteered to leave for yoursake. Do you think he would want you to throw away your position over him like this? If he were here, he would be the first to reprimand your folly!”

_For my sake? What lies are—? He would never leave my side._

Sylvanas turned away from Lor’themar, not trusting herself to hide the emotions boiling inside of her. She could not reconcile with this twist. Nathanos was the only person she knew would be on her side, no matter the time or place, no matter her motives, and she couldn’t accept that he was no longer one of her rangers.

_Everything can change, except you, Nathanos._

Keeping her face carefully blank, she looked at Lor’themar over her shoulder. “My recent perturbation has nothing to do with him. You should know I am not the kind of woman who is swept by her passions.”

“That is what I believe. That is what I told them and what I will tell them, always.”

“If you know my character, then why do you question me?”

“Vereesa is worried about you and I now understand,” he confessed. “I was on my way to Windrunner Spire when I saw you go into the woods. Your distraction was so great that you did not notice me. I worried. I truly did. I followed you for Vereesa’s sake. She cannot afford to lose another person she loves, Sylvanas. Not you _._ She idolizes you.”

She bristled at hearing those words. “Enough! Spare me your observations and get to the point! So what? You saw me hunting in a fit of anger. What of it?”

“I have never seen you so broken. Not even when your parents or brother fell...”

“Say one more word and I will forget my civility,” she snarled.

“This… this expression… this look in your eyes… _this isn’t you._ What happened to you?”

_I was murdered, Lor’themar._

“I need not explain myself to you. What you saw today is not of your concern.”

“If you need time to organize your thoughts or resolve your personal affairs, then ask for a leave of absence.”

“I will not take a leave,” she spat with venom. “I’m surprised you would suggest it when you know they wish to prove I am compromised by his dismissal! I refuse to give them the satisfaction of claiming I am too emotional for this charge when I have proven otherwise through years of dedication. Am I not allowed a single day to myself? Am I not allowed to have a moment in which—”

“I never said that,” he groaned. “We are just worried, Sylvanas. You must understand we—”

“I don’t need your concern.”

“I would have endured and covered for you if only there was not a royal visit upon us. What I saw today made me think it was best for you to not be present, considering the guests.”

“A royal visit?” Sylvanas whirled around, certain she must have misheard him. “When?”

“In two weeks."

_No one visited us after our separation from the Alliance…_

“The King is set in his ways, but you know Prince Kael’thas has pushed for a different approach and His Majesty’s stubbornness on the matter was part of the reason he left.”

“Did Prince Kael’thas decide to invite royals to prove his father wrong?”

“Princess Calia has accepted an old invitation to visit us that Liadrin made.”

“Since when is she friends with that Usurper?”

“What did you just call Her Majesty? Never mind. I do _not_ wish to know.” Lor’themar was perplexed. “But, you must be joking, Sylvanas. Terribly, I must add. Liadrin and Princess Calia have been friends since the reception Prince Kael’thas did in your honor.”

“Since my — _what_?”

First, Vereesa was there and not married with her beloved Rhonin, then Nathanos was dismissed, followed by the royal visit of the usurper on the basis of friendship with Liadrin, and finally, Kael’thas Sunstrider had thrown a party in her honor, from which that friendship had allegedly been born. All of these things were abhorrent deviations from the past she knew. Sylvanas was not happy there were so many discrepancies.

“Has King Anasterian agreed to this diplomatic visit?”

“Liadrin assured His Majesty that Princess Calia’s visit is more of a humanitarian nature, if not wholly personal, but he seems to not mind opening up, per your suggestions. Either way, Princess Calia wishes to bring a young priest with her — he is a protege of a respected human archbishop. Princess Calia wants Liadrin to meet him. He is said to be an exceptional youth. So promising, in fact, that Liadrin said she would allow them to visit the Sunwell if he could prove he was worthy of all the high praises the letter described.”

Sylvanas felt her blood boil. How could a Menethil set their dirty feet near their Sunwell? Was using a random priest to gain access to their sacred place a tactic devised by Arthas? Was he using Calia? Had he already been influenced by Ner’zhul? Did he possess Frostmourne? No, she doubted it. If King Terenas were dead, if the plague had been unleashed on Lordaeron, then the spineless princess wouldn’t be visiting them.

_Do you not have some lover to marry and run away with and later be separated from due to your cowardice, you usurper? Why are you coming here?_

Calia had survived the Scourge Invasion by hiding like a rat and was later protected by that sorry excuse for a Forsaken, Alonsus Faol. What was so important about a nameless priest that she wanted to show him off to her friend? Unless, of course, it turned out that her lover was the priest in this time, and they were hoping to elope under Liadrin’s blessing. That would be a most unwelcome twist.

_It could be problematic for us._

“I didn’t know there was someone so special to the princess that she would want a _friend_ to meet him,” said Sylvanas. “Is that not suspicious to you?”

“The most fascinating part of all of this is that the priest is a commoner,” Lor’themar laughed. “Had it not been for the great power he demonstrated, in spite of lacking formal training, I do not think the Menethil’s would favor him as they do.”

“A commoner, you say? Interesting…” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. Thus far she could suspect the priest was indeed the commoner Calia had fallen in love with. “I wonder what miracle he performed to cause such awe in the princess.”

“Rather it was Prince Arthas the commoner impressed; he saved His Majesty’s horse.”

“Invincible?”

“You remember the animal’s name?” Lor’themar snickered. “The story goes that—”

_Spare me what I already know._

Arthas, that imbecile, would often reminisce about Invincible’s death in her presence. He would go on and on about his life as if she were his friend as if her banshee form were not imposed, but a choice she’d made; as if serving him was her will, and not his. He had been deranged, and pathetically lonely in those final days, surrounded by servants who feared him and said whatever he wanted to hear. Only Sylvanas retained her sharp wit and he allowed it because he relished that there was still someone among them who didn’t worship him or what he had become. He was masochistic that way.

“—so the boy prayed fervently and the horse was healed, its vigor renewed. Since that miracle, Prince Arthas has esteemed the commoner greatly and even recommended him into the priesthood. It was actually the wish of the priest to visit Quel'Thalas and Prince Arthas only facilitated it with the help of his sister.”

Invincible had perished because of Arthas’ great arrogance. He’d been buried and later raised. Sylvanas would never forget the sight of him on his undead steed as he rode toward her. To know that the horse lived thanks to the prayer of some peasant priest, to know that Arthas was happy— it angered her beyond reason.

“So, the bastard has made a friend.”

Lor’themar chuckled. “I see you still hate Prince Arthas quite vehemently.”

Her brow raised. “What do you mean? Do you… remember?”

“Sylvanas, please,” Lor’themar scoffed. “Everyone remembers! You made it clear that you _hated_ Prince Arthas since the moment you laid eyes on him. You always pretend you don’t recall the incident, but I know you do. You couldn’t have possibly forgotten something that happened that night. It was unforgettable.  At the grand reception, where every noble in the Eastern Kingdom had been invited and was in attendance so that he could impress you and win your affection, there appeared Prince Arthas Menethil, utterly smitten by your regal beauty.”

Sylvanas felt her head spin upon hearing such words. Kael’thas hadfancied her once, as he might have wanted anything beautiful and rare, but his feelings changed fairly quickly, like the fickle person he’d always been. But to hear that she had already met Arthas and that he had fancied her, made her stomach churn.

“You must have confused diplomatic flattery with interest.”

“Anyone with eyes could see he fell in love with you. I thought after all our banter you would have grown fonder of me to at least feel comfortable in making light of that evening where so many things went terribly wrong.”

“Teasing you does not mean I have grown fond of you, if anything, it means I have grown lessfond of you. And I have no wish to reminisce about something so repulsive.”

“You don’t need to feel sick anymore, you grouch.”

_Did this imbecile just call me a— I should have pushed you under Galakras at the Siege of Orgrimmar._

“From what I understand, whatever feelings he had for you are changed.”

“Feelings for me?” Sylvanas was indignant. “I doubt!”

“Really? You will deny it to the bitter end? Prince Arthas spent the entire night trying to win your favor, and you might have let him, just to spite the pride of our prince, had you not hated his attention more than the flattery Prince Kael’thas gave you. The two nearly came to blows. Had it not been for Princess Calia’s intervention, the two men would have dueled for your hand.”

“Are you saying all of this to anger me?”

“If you think my observations exaggerated, ask your sister. Vereesa remembers it better than I do. Liadrin as well. Or you can dig out the chest where you tossed all the letters he sent you through the years. You seem the sort to keep them if only to blackmail him with when he becomes king!”

“Arthas wrote _me_ letters?”

“Fine, fine. Keep pretending you forgot,” Lor’themar chuckled. “Though I suppose you could have also burned those letters and sent him the ashes. You loved to return all his gifts broken or withered.”

Lor’themar looked up at the stars.

“Isn’t fate cruel sometimes? Our prince is seemingly destined to be caught in a love triangle with the same rival. Rumor has it they pursue a mage in Dalaran.”

_Jaina Proudmoore; the one with terrible taste in men._

Sylvanas was yet mentally reeling from the revelation that Arthas had been romantically inclined to her. He had written letters! He had sent her gifts! Arthas Menethil had spent years trying to woo her. It made her sick to hear about it. She wanted to vomit at the mere thought of that bastard approaching her with that arrogant smile of his, hoping she would see him as a worthy man. It was heinous that the force who had placed her in such a terrible position deemed it necessary to make Arthas a former suitor. Even if Sylvanas had not returned his feelings, and at least in this fate had not wronged her, the fact that he had wanted  _her_ as a woman made her smolder.

_I would sooner rot than— Wait… Such a perfect opening… would you really... let it go?_

“Lor’themar, do remind me, how long ago was that reception?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I just want to ascertain I’m not wrong to judge him as a fickle-hearted bastard.”

“Of Prince Kael’thas, I would agree, but with Prince Arthas, I do not,” he said. “A man can only be rejected so many times, Sylvanas. Short of groveling at your feet, Prince Arthas did everything to win at least your courtesy.”

_Will this be your excuse to rip my soul from me this time, you son of a bitch?_

“You are making that face again.”

“What face?”

“The one that precedes dead birds.”

_And war…_

Sylvanas had done many reprehensible things. Some of them she had been forced to do under the command of the Lich King, and others she had done for the sake of something greater. She believed the bigger the sacrifice, the greater the reward. Sylvanas was not opposed to sacrificing great things for great outcomes. Ranger General Sylvanas could not do the things the Banshee Queen would, but as she was more one than the other, even at that moment, Sylvanas coulddo the unspeakable. As much as her body fooled everyone with its warmth and color and life, Sylvanas knew it was only a facade. Her soul, the very essence which had remained after her desecration, had been forever changed; it was tarnished and broken. It was all that had been left and what remained inside her living vessel; nothing could undo what she had become.

“Should I aid Prince Kael’thas?”

“With—?” Lor’themar’s eyes went wide with realization. “How?”

“By getting rid of Prince Arthas Menethil for him.”

Lor’themar glanced at her. “Please tell me that plan entails seduction and _not_ murder.”

The corner of her lips curled into a sinister grin. “Tell Liadrin that I, Sylvanas Windrunner, will personally escort and see to the safety of the princess and her little pet priest during their stay in Quel'Thalas.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the one who pushed me on this crack ship and didn't let me give up or go of this idea — thank you, hoe.
> 
> A fair warning to everyone reading: I write long, long chapters. It's a curse. Now that the ball is rolling, the chapters will only get longer, and the updates will take longer. There isn't an order to PoV shifts, but I would like to keep this story from the perspective of Sylvanas and Anduin and not mix them up in a single chapter (or moment.) I don't mind mixed PoV as a reader, but it drives my compulsion crazy to write in that style, so I won't.


	4. Mind Freeze

* * *

Anduin felt convinced that the juncture he found himself at was not a dream or illusion, but an alternate timeline, not unlike the events that transpired in Draenor with the Iron Horde, but hoping with all of his heart that Wrathion had nothing to do with its inception. He wanted to trust that the energy he had perceived from the voice, with a warmth and presence so similar to the Light, was a manifestation of the miracle he had prayed for. The darkness of the night, however, had the ability to warp his hopes and turn them into fears. He could see a pair of vermillion eyes peering at him from the corner of his room in the attic of the Balnir’s home. At first, he thought his mind was tricking him into seeing  Sylvanas’ haunting gaze, but these were not her eyes — they lacked the loathing which characterized her. These were an intimately familiar pair he had spent hours looking into, during their lengthy conversations at the Tavern in the Mists. These were the eyes of the very being Anduin wished were not involved in this. They beckoned him to remember the days as the King of Stormwind, to not forget what had led him to this place. Like the pain that had torn his body when the Divine Bell crashed on him, Anduin gritted his teeth, the memories of those grueling times tumbling into him with a physical force so strong that he cried out.

**Isn’t it time you accept you cannot keep doing things the same way?**

The husky whisper came from the Black Prince; it coursed through him like poison. Anduin wanted to reach out, but he found he was paralyzed. The eyes shifted, moving closer, and he could make out the silhouette of a man in the shadows. Smoldering fingertips touched his forehead, caressing the length of one of his brows. The pain amplified. All the anguish, the anger, and guilt came to the forefront. Anduin wanted to ask him why he was there, why he was doing this to him, but he couldn’t find his voice. The dragon was not beyond meddling with forces that would facilitate his self imposed duty of protecting Azeroth, yet the Dark Lady’s campaign had lasted more than a year and he hadn’t intervened once. It had felt, in those days, that even the Light had grown dimmer; none of their efforts got them anywhere. Every loss of the Alliance turned into a boon for Sylvanas’ cause. Fallen soldiers were raised as undead to replenish her army, rebel cities were plagued with an incurable strain that doomed the infected to a lifetime of mindless decay, enemies of the Alliance became allies of her Horde, and those who felt abandoned, by whatever power they believed in, found a new purpose in the world she promised to rule. She had divided them as intended and left Anduin to contend with the fallout.

With Kul’Tiras nearly in ruins at the hands of the coalition, Sylvanas had formed with the opposing forces in Drustvar and Priscilla Ashvane, Jaina had been left to erect an impenetrable ice barrier over Stormsong Valley and Tiragarde Sound, to delay their advancements and protect her people’s lands from the vicious plague. She had evacuated them on naval fleets and disappeared into the skies, as mysteriously as her ship had emerged at Lordaeron. They had sent word they would reconvene at Stormwind, but their aid never came and their ships were not seen again. Tyrande and Malfurion had pulled away from their strategic efforts, and with the aid of Gilneas, pursued the retaking of Darkshore and avenging the genocide of Darnassus on their own. Eventually, most had succumbed to the same plague. Even with the Honorable Horde led by Saurfang at their side, what remained of the Alliance was forced to accept, in the grueling months that followed, that they fought a battle they could not win. Sylvanas only grew in power, while their numbers dwindled. She had amassed more Azerite and weapons of destruction, she had a bigger army and ruthless allies; Sylvanas had conquered key points across the world, with the help of the Zandalari, cutting them off from resources and land. She had starved them, tired them, and broken them. His people were dying in front of his very eyes and he couldn’t stop it. None of them could do anything. It was as if everything they believed in and all they prayed to had grown indifferent to their suffering. Grim was the day the leaders admitted defeat and voted to put into action one of the most difficult decisions they had ever made. Anduin personally penned the letter, trying to appeal to what little humanity he hoped the Warchief still had, to petition a meeting to discuss their surrender; they would give her what she wanted, their kingdoms and lands and even their loyalty, in exchange for their people’s lives to remain intact.

Wrathion had warned that his kindness and benevolent heart would be his downfall. Anduin realized how prophetic those words had been. On the evening in which they had agreed to a ceasefire, in order to discuss the treaty, Sylvanas had unleashed her most brutal assault and won the war on her terms. It had wounded him, more than any arrow she could have shot at him, to see that there was nothing left of the hero she had been, that the only way to reach her was to go back to the beginning, before the events that doomed her to become what she was. Did the black dragon expect that reliving those last moments of monumental loss and betrayal would harden Anduin’s heart? Was he supposed to give into hatred and resentment, abandoning the values that made him who he was? Was he expected to hunt down Sylvanas in this life and kill her before she became a champion of death? Was that the purpose of setting him there? Was the only way to overcome a foe truly just slaying them? Anduin refused to believe it. He never had, and never would accept it as the only solution to the conflict.

Words were powerful and often more effective than swords. Even after having lost everything, even when he perfectly understood the lessons Sylvanas had tried to teach, he rejected and disagreed with such vile methods. She took much from him, but she hadn’t taken his faith. There was a reason, he believed, that he had endured such a war and been given this new opportunity. Whether it was Wrathion and his allies or some other altruistic force behind his current life, Anduin would do things the only way he knew how; by following the Light.

That resolve broke through the mind freeze which had paralyzed him. The pain dissolved, the eyes in the shadows melted away; a quiet peace sprinkled over him, pulling him to sleep. The dreams that followed were pleasant. He dreamt of a future which he still believed was within reach, one he knew they could all make a reality; it was a dream he was willing to fight for. He wasn’t naive enough to expect there wouldn’t be conflicts, disputes, or even powerful enemies to threaten that peace, but he had seen with his own eyes what a united front could do against powers that seemed insurmountable. United they had defeated the Burning Legion, they had overcome the madness of Deathwing, and every foe that had risen to threaten their existence on Azeroth. United they were powerful, unshakable, and nearly indestructible. Division, as Sylvanas had shown, led to destruction and sorrow. Anduin would never stop fighting for that definition of peace and unity; he would give his very life for it.

_Your heart is noted, Child of Light._

The next morning his life as Anduin Balnir truly began, as it did the morning after that one, and every morning thereafter. It was a choice he made every day that he rose to that new reality. Anduin got up with the crow of the roosters and had breakfast with a family he opened his heart to. He diligently learned from a father who was willing to teach him all the things he constantly seemed to forget due to his condition. Every evening, by six o’clock sharp, he was bathed and ready for dinner. After the plates were washed, a task Anduin insisted in helping with, they lingered in the quaint living room, huddled by the fireplace, to reminisce about his forgotten childhood. The Balnir’s were happy to fill the gaps, never begrudging him for how many times they had done so. They accepted their son was different since the day he saved Invincible. There was more to that tale than Arthas knew. The stress of healing his horse left Anduin in a coma for a year. King Terenas took responsibility of his medical care and the young prince was told that his friend went to help an uncle at their farm in Westfall when in reality he had been cared for in Stormwind at the Cathedral of Lights. They didn’t want the young prince to know what had happened to him or how deeply the strain of that miracle had affected his mind. Anduin wondered, not for the first time, who had been living the life of the Balnir’s son before he awakened into it. How could he have the same likeness of his former self? Did he exist in two timelines? What had happened to the world he knew? Was it frozen in time? Did it cease to exist? Was his other self living it? Would he return to it someday? What sort of scene would he awaken to if he did? Anduin was overcome with questions and came up with very few answers. His inquisitive mind wanted to know, but it was impossible to delve into research so far from any books that could help him find logic in his many theories.

Vara was the one who noticed his apprehension, keen as she was. Having a mother to pamper and fuss over him was awkward. Anduin had not lacked caring feminine figures in his life, but the tenderness that came from the calloused hands that held his face, as if he were the most precious existence in the world, was a love only a mother could give. Perhaps for that reason, he found it easy to bond with Vara. As the days passed, he concluded she was every bit as Arthas had described; a tough, protective, honest, and affectionate woman who cherished him dearly. Her love was able to ameliorate his worries and she even encouraged him to fight, though she knew not the details of his plight. Though his fingernails were dirty, his clothes old and tattered, and he could never quite get all the dust and hay out of his hair, Anduin grew content in his simple life. He adapted to it with ease. He had nearly forgotten why he was there until the reminder came in the form of a letter from Arthas. It took longer than the promised two days, but he hadn’t noticed the delay having been caught up in adjusting to his new life.

Anduin was to travel to Quel’Thalas with Princess Calia Menethil, as a disciple of the Light. Calia would introduce him to Lady Liadrin, their host, and with her guidance, they might be granted permission to visit the Sunwell. They would spend a week in the elven kingdom. Enough time, he thought, to see if Sylvanas Windrunner was there, and ascertain for himself that she was as oblivious as Arthas to their doomed history.

“What do you think will happen, Radiance?”

At first glance, the horse appeared white, but she was a pale gold under the rays of the sun. She reminded him of Reverence. Anduin could not keep himself from grinning as he brushed her. Jorum said he had taken care of Radiance, initially nameless since she was a foal. Though he could have no memory of forming such a special bond with the animal, it was impossible to not feel the connection at that moment. Radiance seemingly understood his words and often neighed in varying pitches, as if responding to his idle conversation. Anduin rested his head on her forehead. The horse nuzzled him with an equal sentiment.

“I have always found words come easy, but this time I am wholly unprepared for what I will say when I am finally in her presence. The last time I saw her was… painful. And what if the Dark Lady recognizes me? What if she remembers? What can I possibly say or do then? It would be easier if she didn’t. It would be for the best if we could start over as strangers.”

Radiance neighed in disagreement, whipping her tail in disapproval of his cowardice. Anduin sighed. Was he so lonely that he imagined these were responses?

“You say that because you don’t know her. I admit a very small part of me does wish she’d remember me. The one I wanted to get through was her; that hardened woman who only displayed hatred and coldness. By the Light, how desperately I had hoped I could reach her. That I could show her I would have gladly given her the peace I know she longed for, if only she had trusted me.”

Radiance snorted.

“I know. I am aware of that. She had no reason to trust me. There was not enough time to prove I was not like him. That I could convince those who would oppose us. To her, I was just a foolish boy who didn’t know what he was doing or getting himself into.”

Anduin shook his head. She had done so many unforgivable and unspeakable things, and he should have felt something other than a yearning to understand her. At his core, however, this was what drove him. He was not satisfied with believing she was another power-hungry leader looking for world domination. Sylvanas acted as if her very existence depended upon living in a world totally under her terms and Anduin wanted to know where that fear — for that was what it was — came from. He wanted to know what had made her believe the only way to survive was killing all that opposed undeath.

“Such passionate confession and you dare insist there is no one in your heart, Anduin?”

He turned to find Arthas leaning against the threshold of the stables, arms crossed. He donned not his armor or weapons or princely robes, but fashioned a brown leather ensemble, not much different than what Anduin wore. With Jaina in Lordaeron for an extended visit, Arthas shouldn’t have been at the farmstead. He wasn’t even going to see him off to Quel’Thalas.

“How long have you been there?”

“Long enough to witness you would rather tell a horse about your lady than me. I will forgive you because I know how much Radiance means to you. With that in mind, isn’t it time you finally had her? She might help you impress the lady you are sulking for.”

“I am not sulking,” he responded a smidge indignant. “And I could never afford her.”

“The horse or the lady?”

Though it was said in jest, there was something about his voice that betrayed sadness. Anduin turned to him, eyes curious. “Did something happen?”

“Probably.”

“Do you want me to listen?”

“For now, all I want you to do is accept Radiance from me.”

“Arthas…”

The prince raised his hand to stop him. “There is no use in arguing, Anduin. I have bought her and put her under your name. She is yours, as I intended. I have also had two trunks taken up to your room full of necessities for your trip, too. Appease my pride and accept. I couldn’t send you to accompany my sister wearing anything less than an impeccable wardrobe. You will look like a noble and ride a horse worthy of the House of Menethil. Radiance will allow you to explore Quel’Thalas freely, as I know you are inquisitive by nature. Be mindful of the trolls who randomly raid their villages and please, try not to do anything that might cause the high elves to declare war on my kingdom.”

“I will refrain from taking a swim in their fountains.”

Arthas burst out laughing. It pleased him that he was able to draw such a sincere guffaw from a prince who had arrived looking tired. Bluish dark circles rimmed his eyes and he had a bit of stubble on his usually clean-shaven face.

“You do too much for my sake, Arthas. I am overwhelmed by your kindness.”

“Only you would call my pride kindness. ”

“Only you would call kindness pride.”

Arthas soughed. “I was concerned you might get offended I thought your wardrobe beneath the occasion.”

“You spared me from the robe my mother was sewing for me. Bless her heart, I know she means well, but I doubt purple is a color that suits me!”

Arthas chuckled. “Calia still has the robe your mother gifted her when we were children for her birthday. It was purple linen, too. I wonder if she’s kept the fabric all these years.”

“There’s no need to keep it from me,” said Anduin, green in the face. “Mother recently refreshed my memories of our childhood and told me sometimes she would dress me as a girl and that Calia was fond of calling me her little sister Anduina when she visited those rare times.”

This drew a snigger from the prince. “Had I not known you were a boy I might have fallen for your charms and called you my first love!”

“If you keep teasing me like that I will tell Jaina I was your first love!”

Arthas’ smile vanished at the mention of her name. It was obvious to Anduin that she was the cause of his somber mood. He cleared his throat and said, “As you may have heard, the elves are a proud people. A homemade linen robe might have caused King Anasterian a seizure and a war would have been declared on us over this.”

“I’ll accept all your gifts without complaints if you tell me what is weighing you down.”

“You are far too keen for your own good. You are also the only one who can understand me and perhaps make sense of these emotions that sicken me to the marrow.”

“Shall we go somewhere we won’t be disturbed?”

“How about we race to the lake?”

Anduin was surprised.

“You have a shiny new horse, my friend. Shouldn’t we have a proper race to commemorate? As for the stakes, how about this — if I win, you’ll tell me about your dark lady, and if you win, I’ll tell you about mine. Do we have an agreement?”

Anduin knew their friendship allowed him certain liberties, but Arthas was still a prince and rejecting him when he evidently needed this was out of the question. Radiance was a very capable horse, but Invincible was thoroughly trained. There was no question in his mind that Arthas would win the race. Anduin worried over what he would tell him as he didn’t want to outright lie, but he couldn’t tell him about Sylvanas either.

“I’ll saddle up.”

Arthas smiled. “I’ll wait for you outside.”

Anduin took some time finding a suitable seat for Radiance. Once he did, he proceeded to tell her that she shouldn’t take a loss personally. Radiance responded by snorting loudly in his face, throwing her temper at him without mercy. He laughed at her antics. Arthas had truly given him a priceless gift. He made it out of the stables and found Arthas by the entrance of the farmstead. Being on a horse made him feel nostalgic. Not just because he missed riding, but also due to the memories of his father that came unbidden. Varian had been the first to teach him about horses. Shaking those thoughts away, he came up to Arthas.

The prince canted his head appreciatively at the sight of them. “She really suits you. Now, let’s see your bond in action. Shortcuts are allowed. Show me how well you know these woods!”

Anduin prepared himself. “On the count of three, then?”

Arthas nodded. “One, two… three!”

They were off. It wouldn’t be strange for the son of a horse breeder and trainer to be a good rider, but Anduin was careful to not demonstrate too many maneuvers that came from his royal training. The day was beautiful, as all days had been since he’d awakened there. At a distance behind him was the Kingdom of Lordaeron, the Capital City, in its glorious splendor. Sadness came swiftly as he remembered not just the ruins Arthas had left his city in, but the destruction Sylvanas had caused, which had stretched all the way to the northern coast. Anduin forced himself to look away and cast those thoughts aside; he couldn’t dwell on that past if he hoped to succeed in this future. As they made their way into the woods, Anduin relished the crisp scent of life that thrived through the forest. Radiance moved like the wind, her powerful gallops gaining on Invincible, and the two men were soon head to head. Arthas lit up at the competition. They shared a smile that, for some reason, struck another wave of grief through him. The Prince of Lordaeron had no intention of letting him win; he veered from the path and disappeared through the trees. Anduin was left to follow his sense of direction as the shimmering lake peeked through the foliage ahead. He had studied enough of the terrain in preparation for the battle to be confident of his path. It only took him a few minutes to reach their target. As expected, Arthas was there. They let their horses roam freely and moved down the bank in silence. Arthas grabbed a pebble and threw it, causing it to skid exceptionally far over the water. The ripples it caused soon stilled and it was then that the prince spoke, voice deepened with emotion.

“Your bond with Radiance made it impossible for her to belong to anyone else. No matter what happens, I want you to know giving her was my sincerity.”

“You sound like you are going somewhere far.”

“At times I feel like I will disappear and never find my way back to anywhere or anyone that matters.”

He felt the foreboding in those words and it tore him. Another stretch of silence followed. This time it was Anduin who broke it.

“The lady you’re curious of is… we aren’t what you think. She and I are worlds apart—”

“Because she is an elf?”

“Because we view life differently,” he replied. “And because there is nothing about me she could possibly want.”

“There is what you want.” Arthas picked up another smooth pebble and handed it to Anduin. “Is the torment not found in being incapable of escaping the yearnings she inspires?”

“I suppose it can be torture, yes. To wonder why — to want to change the way things are...” Anduin tossed the pebble and was pleased to see it go far. “Knowing you might never get any of it. Not the answers nor the change… that everything might turn the same or worse...”

“But, you said might, which indicates a hope it can be different.”

“Hope is something I will never cease to have about anything. I’m a hopeful fool.”

“Did she call you that?”

“She’s said much worse.”

“And she is in Quel’Thalas?”

“I don’t know. She might not be there. She didn’t belong there anymore.”

“You fell in love with an elf rebel?”

“It isn’t like tha—”

“I know what it feels like to be made to believe, by the object of your affection, that there is nothing in you she could possibly want.” Arthas turned away, his expression unreadable. “There was a woman who stole my heart and my reason before Jaina. Never had I experienced such a profound yearning for anyone. She was my first love; a love that spurned me.”

“Had you told me about her?”

“Never. She wounded my pride and I had no intention of letting anyone, not even you, know.”

“Yet you’re telling me now.”

“Because you brought her to mind again.”

“I did?”

“I thought I had overcome my desires, but when you told me you wanted to go to Quel'thalas, it made me think of her. I have been unable to think of anything else, though the Light knows I tried. I suppose it was better to know now than later...”

“What about Jaina?”

Anduin saw those blue eyes flash and for a moment he wasn’t the gentle prince he had first met; in that fraction of a second, Arthas’ entire countenance had been marked by cold rage. “Jaina left,” he whispered. “Just as I intended.”

Anduin started. “What do you mean she left? Why? You had—”

“I left out some old letters so that she could find them. Letters I wrote to my first love long ago.”

“But why? You were so enthused. You wanted to propose to her. You had made plans.”

“I have begun doubting the sincerity of my feelings for her, Anduin. How genuine could they have been if I was so easily swept by past longings? Wasn’t I deluding myself into thinking it was love when it was just arrogance? I wanted to take something from Kael’thas and Jaina was it. The pleasure I felt at seeing his anguish when she chose me, over him…”

“Certainly those weren’t your feelings when we last met.”

“Jaina is intelligent, beautiful… lust is comprehensible. I’m a hot-blooded man, after all.”

“This is madness talking, Arthas!”

“I suppose I am mad. Do you know what else I thought, Anduin?” Arthas looked at him dismayed. “I wanted to keep you from meeting her in Quel’Thalas. I arrived in a panic and rage at the palace the night I promised to send you there. I devised ways to keep you from crossing paths with her. I even asked Calia to keep a distance, on the pretense that it was to protect you from her hatred should she come to know how much you mean to me. That was a lie. My despair comes from the possibility that you might fall in love with her, or worse, that she might love you — as she could never love me. To think that you can have her, that you may lay with her… it really tortures me. What if I grow to hate you because of her? She is not mine and she never will be, but I don’t want you to have her either. Anyone but you. I couldn’t stand it.”

Anduin gaped at him. “By the light, Arthas!”

“You must be disappointed in me. I feel disgusted with myself for these thoughts that corrode me. I am unworthy of being a paladin, of wielding the light in any way, when such darkness lives within me. I have fought with myself, tried to rid my heart and mind of these emotions, but they haunt me. They make me question the sincerity of my good feelings toward everyone. You, Jaina, my own family. I feel like I am falling into a pit from where I won’t be able to get out of.”

“You’ve judged yourself too harshly,” said Anduin. “In spite of those thoughts, you bought me clothes and gifted me a horse, so that I could be presentable—”

“That’s my pride,” he groaned. “That is my attempt at convincing myself I am not abhorrent.”

“No, Arthas. That is your kindness. Had it been your pride you would have let me go as the peasant I am, so that they wouldn’t respect me, so that your first love would have no reason to notice me, so that I might be reminded of my place and never hope to aspire to more. Had it truly been your pride, you would have let them humble me. Instead, you chose to exalt me by giving me the means to seem more than I am.”

The prince looked at him skeptically. “You don’t find my confession utterly reprehensible?”

“Who am I to judge you?”

“Don’t placate me, Anduin. I ask as a friend, not as a prince. Don’t tell me what I want to hear!”

“Your confession was reprehensible.”

“By the Light, of course, it was! Even I’m embarrassed by all the things I said to you!”

“Worry when you have such thoughts and don’t feel troubled by their wrongness. You aren’t a bad man for having ugly thoughts; you’re a good man for not acting upon them.”

“Do you genuinely believe it?”

“This is my sincerity.”

“Anduin,” he exhaled with relief. “Either you esteem me too high or you can see me in a light that I haven’t been able to find.”

“I esteem you just right, Arthas.”

“Do you ever struggle with such dark thoughts?”

“My demons are different in nature. I don’t struggle with pride, but I do struggle with self-doubt. I feel like I can never be as good as my—” Anduin caught himself. “As good as others. I sometimes fall into pessimism. I can be highly critical of myself, too. It is human nature. We all have a vice, Arthas.”

The prince leaned back, folding his arms under his head as he stared at the sky. “It’s as if the feelings which weighed on me have vanished after sharing them with you. How do you always make me feel so at peace with the ugliest sides of myself? Is this your priestly charm?”

“I believe speaking our troubles allows them to disperse much quicker from our minds.”

“As usual, you won’t take any of my compliments.”

They were silent for a long time, enough for the sun to begin its descent and a few stars to twinkle in the darker corners of the sky. The air itself grew colder as the chill of the night seeped through the forest. At last, Arthas spoke.

“I want to know why she despises me. The root of all my wicked thoughts stems from this.”

“Will you accept her reasons and move on?”

“Perhaps in the past, I might have fought her and tried to prove her wrong, but now…”

“You have Jaina,” Anduin said with a smile. He pointed a finger at Arthas. “And despite what you said, I’m certain it is love, and not just lust or some prize from competition had with another prince. It could be that at first, you courted her to spite Prince Kael’thas, but only a fool would think what you feel isn’t love. You’ve already described what your children would look like!”

The corner of his lips twitched upward. “Did you just call your future king a fool?”

“You told me not to placate you.”

“Have you imagined your children with your dark lady?”

Anduin choked on his own saliva upon hearing that question. By the Light, Arthas was so far off with his guess of what kind of relationship he had with the Dark Lady of the Forsaken! Sylvanas would sooner feed his body to the maggots than consider bedding it.

“I already told you that’s not—”

“Should I make you a noble?”

Anduin turned to him. “What?”

“When you said you are worlds apart from your lady, and if she is an elf — and you have yet to tell me how you met, don’t think I’ve forgotten — then it stands to reason she would consider you beneath her station based on her pride alone. If I gave you a title and some property, she would have one less reason to reject you. Such a good man like you, she’s a fool to let you go.”

“By the Light! You could give me a fortune and a title and she still would not mind me. She absolutely hates me and everything I stand for.”

_At least the Dark Lady certainly did…_

“Is she a warlock?”

Anduin could have laughed if only the situation were remotely comical.

“The only ones who could potentially hate what you stand for are warlocks,” he said. “We have such a sad fate, my friend. Hated by our first loves.”

By the Light. She is **not** my first love…

“I can still see the fire in her eyes, you know. How is it that she manages to look down on me as if I were a worm at her feet when I stand above her?”

Anduin knew the power of such a disconcerting gaze. Sylvanas had made him feel like nothing in the ruined throne room of Lordaeron. She had walked to him with such confidence, strength, and poise, and though they stood eye to eye, she might as well have towered over him. Her presence was imposing, her gaze belittling. He felt inadequate and inconsequential in her presence.

_You’ve won… nothing._

“Are you implying you’re taller or more important than her?”

He mimicked his friend and tossed himself back, thankful his head landed on a nice patch of grass. The stars filled the sky to the point that there was hardly space without one.

“Do you think she perceived me as someone who would imply the latter? That I carry myself in such a way that would make her feel like I thought she owned me her attention due to my title?”

“Is that honestly not part of the reason you are unable to move on?”

“My cursed pride precedes me.”

“Are we hypothesizing her reasons? Shouldn’t you confront her and put an end to this chapter?”

“If only she would accept seeing me.”

“Why not ask Calia to speak with her? Perhaps among women, they can come to an understanding as to why you need to have a word with her.”

“She would not care to listen. My only resort is tricking her into a meeting.”

“That hardly sounds like it would entreat her to listen when you show up.”

“Instead of my sister pleading for me, why not have you go instead?”

“Were you not just telling me you didn’t want me to meet her?”

"Yes, and in spite of my embarrassing confession, you thought I was better than they made me feel, thus I am trying to overcome my bad feelings by facing them."  Arthas waved an envelope in front of his face. “I have been carrying this letter for the last couple of weeks, debating with myself on whether I should have you deliver it in my stead or not.”

Anduin took the envelope. It lacked the royal seal of the House of Menethil. “You really do plan to lure her out without revealing your identity?”

“My goal is for her to at least open the letter and read it, not cast it into the fire as soon as she sees it comes from me. After opening it she will know it’s me who sends it. If I am to have a future with Jaina, I need to do this and put an end to the chapter, as you said.”

"And just who am I to deliver—"

He flipped the envelope over to read the name that was inked in perfect calligraphy.

**Lady Sylvanas Windrunner**

Anduin bolted upright as if he had been struck by lightning. He felt his entire body go numb. He couldn’t breathe. He could barely think. Words failed him. His very heart stopped, or at least it felt like it had. As he stared at the envelope, unable to dissimulate the tremors that rocked him, he wondered how it was possible that Arthas had once loved Sylvanas in this life. No, he understood how — there were countless songs about the beauty of the Windrunner Sisters, but this did not match the history between them that Anduin was aware of.

Why is this happening now? What can this possibly change? Does it not make it worse?

Anduin felt his heart shatter when he realized that Arthas had a romantic inclination toward a woman he was destined to kill — if he became a death knight and followed the same path he had in his first life. It was unbearable to think what could possibly happen if Sylvanas, already hating him now, were to be killed by him. Would she not become an even crueler incarnation than she had been, by suffering an end at the hands of a man she had rejected in love? Would that not destroy even the smallest fragment of her humanity that had remained in her first life? He dared not imagine what such a Banshee Queen would be capable of. The world might know worse than he had experienced.

“Anduin!”

Arthas grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. It was only then that he realized he had collapsed. His vision blurred and he could barely sit. Arthas patted his face several times to wake him from his stupor. “Anduin! Look at me! Let’s get you to the lake so we can have you drink some water. Come on, up we go.”

He let Arthas help him down the bank. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until the water touched his lips.

“Anduin, stay with me… don’t close your eyes! Anduin! Are you listening to me? Can you hear me? Give me some sort of sign that you—”

What if Sylvanas is not the Ranger-General? What if she — like me — has been placed here as a different person? How will I find her then? Azeroth is so big, there are so many people…

“Anduin, don’t do this to me again. Stay with me... Anduin!”

“A-Arthas… please… don’t…” He grabbed the collar of the prince’s vest, making him look Anduin in the eyes. “Promise me that you will listen to what I have to say when the time comes.”

Arthas placed a hand over his, squeezing it. “Why not tell me now? I am listening. I am here.”

“I can’t… You wouldn’t believe me. You would not—”

“I know there is something you are keeping from me,” Arthas whispered. “Sometimes you look at me with hopelessness that unsettles me. I have tried to erase that look from your eyes by not disappointing your expectations, but I grow doubtful. There is unrest in my soul, Anduin. Something is calling me, something powerful, and I know not if I’ll be able to resist it.”

“You can. You will. You always have a choice, Arthas. Promise me, in the name of our friendship, that you will listen.”

"Are you—" Arthas looked grieved. “Are you having those dreams again?"

Anduin did not understand.

"The ones where you see me wielding a blade on top of a mountain of corpses? Is this why you have tried to make me believe that I am a good person today? Because you see me slipping into the darkness and want to rescue me from it? Is that why you want me to promise that I will listen when I… whenever I…”

“I told you about that?” Anduin gasped.

"Yes... you told me about your dreams. You were deeply troubled by them. You said you had to keep me in the Light."

Had the Anduin Balnir who existed before he woke in that reality foreseen Arthas’ fate? How much of those dreams were shared with the prince to make him look like he knew more than Anduin wanted him to?

“What did you see this time? Tell me, Anduin.”

“Dreams are just dreams…”

“Not yours.”

“I’m not a prophet.”

“Yet you had a dream about my accident. You told me that was the reason you went out in the middle of the night to find me. And find me you did. Had your dreams not led you to me, we might have died; at the very least Invincible would have. If your dreams show me in such a grim future, then I…” his voice cracked. “I feel this is all so eerily familiar as if I have walked this path before. I— I don’t want to lose myself, Anduin. I cannot bear to be in the darkness. I don’t want this fate for myself. I want to stay in the Light. Therefore, please, tell me what you saw so that I can prepare to fight it with everything I have.”

Anduin felt his eyes well with tears upon hearing such a plea. He couldn’t stand to see that even Arthas anticipated the perils ahead. He was so sincere, so open in his desire to remain in the Light that Anduin couldn’t help feeling moved. His very soul wept for the loss of this man’s goodness in his first life. How could he possibly tell Arthas what he truly knew? How could he let him know that he had already lost the fight once and given into the powers that cast him into darkness and damnation forever? Anduin couldn’t bring such ill tidings to the prince; he felt he would doom him to that fate if he did. What Arthas needed was to believe in himself, to believe he could resist the powers that called him.

“I promise to listen…” Arthas said. “But, if I fail to uphold this promise, then you must swear to me that you will end me before I can climb that mountain of corpses.”

Anduin shook his head. "I can't do such a thing..."

“It is an order, as your Prince and future King!” he roared. “It is an order! Do you understand? I will not fall into that place you have seen, Anduin. I would rather die than succumb to this .” He beat against his chest where it seemed all the dark temptation was stored. “You must be willing to deliver the blow. Swear it to me. Now.”

 _At times I feel like I will disappear_  
_and never find my way back_  
to anywhere or anyone that matters.

Anduin closed his eyes. “I swear I will protect you from the darkness, Prince Arthas Menethil.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession: I am not used to writing wholesome good guys like Anduin. I spent an entire week watching various of his cut scenes in-game to get "in the feels" but he's probably the most challenging of the two to write simply because I do believe he's genuinely a good, empathetic character.
> 
> I wish you all a wonderful Christmas and Happy New Year. [Here](https://youtu.be/NOudUXxWPSs) is a gem for the Warcraft fandom that I found the other day.


	5. Misdirect

* * *

 

While she had existed as the Dark Lady of the Forsaken, there had been another parading as Sylvanas Windrunner in the time she was trapped in. The memories people had of her could not be explained if someone else had not been there to experience them in her stead. Compelled to find answers, Sylvanas rummaged through her belongings, and a sense of urgency led her to remove a painting from the wall. There was a tiny crevice from which she could pull out a perfectly carved square from the stone of the spire. Inside of that hole was an ornate box — a gift from her father — and within the box was a journal, as well as all of the letters that the Prince of Lordaeron had written. Much to her mortification, Lor’themar had not exaggerated about Arthas’ feelings for her. He had courted her through those letters, proposing even the thought of marriage; to show how serious he was and to prove that it was not the passing whim of a royal. He’d detailed the life he would give her as if she were not perfectly capable of attaining such glory by her own merits. There were dozens of letters, a whole stack of them, and unlike what Lor’themar supposed, she hadn’t burned them. Her alternate, as she had taken to calling the other Sylvanas, had kept them like relics. Why any rendition of her would do so was beyond her understanding, but it had not been a decision driven by the remote thought of reciprocation.

Even Arthas had been perfectly aware of her visceral response to him; the prince had spent great effort to prove that he was flawed, but a good man.In the last letter he’d written, he shared his vast disappointment with her and lamented that they could not even be friends. He believed they had common values and a shared goal of seeing the prosperity of their kingdoms, and he thought, at the very least, that they might have a diplomatic relationship. He claimed he would always wait for her to respond to that offer for the sake of their future. How typical of him, she’d thought. Arthas was a manipulative bastard; to try and make her feel guilty was so _him._ Why had her alternate taken so long to cut him out of her life? It could not have been out of fear or a sense of obligation. She had never catered to the whims of any man, regardless of their station. She had been, and was, every bit untamable.

Sylvanas turned to the journal for answers. The young ranger had penned her first entry shortly after Lirath’s death, which she had dreamt of, and had not touched the journal again until the fateful night she met Arthas. Her alternate described an immediate aversion to him, an inexplicable rage that came from within the deepest parts of her being. That very night she had one of many dreams related to the Scourge invasion. Sylvanas knew those were not mere nightmares, as her alternate supposed, but memories — _her_ memories — of the great fall. What had led her other self to pursue a semblance of friendship with the prince through letters was the need to know if _he_ was the catalyst. Time had proven him harmless, unsurprisingly. Arthas _had_ been a good man once or so it was said. Sylvanas turned to the last entry to read the conclusion her alternate had written before disappearing to make way for her, the Dark Lady.

 

> _The dreams are too vivid to be considered anything but prophetic. All these years I have kept communication with the one I thought might have a hand in what I am convinced shall happen. I cannot find faults, as much as I want to. His greatest offense thus far has been offering me a boring life as his Queen. I thought my rejection might be the cause of souring relations between our kingdoms, but a light-wielder is incapable of the havoc I have seen. If there was darkness in him, I would have long drawn it out. I have scorned and mocked him. I have returned his gifts in ashes. I have been pedantic and prideful. I have wounded his ego and caused him distress. Even so, he was gentle with me. He has only shown hurt, not resentment. If he were truly capable of evil, he would have shown those colors to me by now._
> 
> _The desolation of my people could only be had at the hands of a truly evil foe, allied with a traitor amongst us, for how else could he get past our wards? Furthermore, those things are no longer human. The army is composed of shambling corpses, skeletons barely strung together by tendons and muscles, and monstrosities stitched up crudely with mismatched body parts. Only masters of the darkest arts could call such things into existence. A paladin of his faith could not possibly command an army of such unholy beings._
> 
> _Perhaps his Kingdom shall also fall to these monsters and this is why the dreams began when we met. Could it be that I must unite our kingdoms to win? Perhaps his urge for unity comes from his own premonitions. In preparation of this being our salvation, I have begun urging the King to reconsider his stance._
> 
> _Someone is coming. Someone will make that vision a reality. My people’s demise will come at the hands of a foe without honor that we are wholly unprepared to defeat alone. He will block my arrows, he will raise our dead to his army and defeat our mightiest. Quel’Thalas will fall._
> 
> _I cannot see the face of the man who rides that skeletal steed to end my life. I can only feel the rage he inspires, in its purest form, blazing through my soul. He will transform me into something more wicked than the despicable things that will see to our demise._
> 
> _I see her — I see myself in her. She is a husk of me, but she is still very much who I am._
> 
> _I feel as though I am losing my mind, possessed by this being who is consumed by hatred, whose only purpose is causing suffering with that awful wailing that still rings in my ears. And she mocks me, she thinks me a fool; she wants me to believe that the only way to fight evil is with equal ruthlessness. This is a lie… and yet it’s a lie that is permeating through my senses. Perhaps my failure comes because at the core I am not as righteous as I believed._
> 
> _I feel she is infecting me, tearing through my senses, making me question my values and morality, but could it be that these were never valued truly rooted in my heart?She exceeds my capacity for cunning. She is cruel. What a miserable fate that such a being will be all that is left of me if this destiny is to be fulfilled. I reject it. I reject her._
> 
> _I refuse._
> 
> _I am compelled to write so that I do not forget who I am. I cannot abandon my sworn duty or cast aside the legacy of my bloodline. Nothing will tear me apart; not these visions, not the fear they instill, not even the promise of my end or the transformation into such a monstrosity. Whatever that ghastly thing is, I will not become it. This I vow._
> 
> _I will do whatever I must, sell my soul for a bargain if that is what it takes, for the chance to undo that fate. For I am Sylvanas Windrunner, Ranger-General of Silvermoon._
> 
> _The only one that was and that will ever be._
> 
> _In this life and in the next._  

Sylvanas wanted to burn the journal. She wanted to be rid of all of its implications; if anyone found what was written there she would be deemed mad. The impending death of the Prince of Lordaeron would rightfully fall on her. They would not understand the great favor she would do the world by taking him before Ner’zhul did. Every time she tried casting the damned thing into the furnace, however, something compelled her not to. A power stronger than her will stilled her hand and she could not bring herself to move. With a frustrated hiss, she returned to her room to shove it back into the hole from where it should have never come out of. It was obvious that someone — or something — wanted her to remember. They wanted her to feel what she could no longer muster; Sylvanas had very little to regret anymore. It should have stayed that way, but those words echoed in her mind and ignited something akin to guilt. Guilt — of all things! The words forced her to see how far she had veered from where she had started; they made her yield to the viewpoint of someone who had long died _._

_You are alive now._

What provoked her ire was knowing that those were the words of her living self. That journal was the heart of the Ranger-General of Silvermoon. Had Sylvanas foreseen her fate in dreams, she too would have been repulsed by what she would become, by all she would do. Even as the Banshee Queen, she felt, dull as the pangs were. Everyone assumed she was unfeeling, a being incapable of anything but hatred, that she could not possibly be stirred by other emotions, but she could and she was.Undeath only allowed her an innate suppression, a firmer grip on those dimmed emotions. Sylvanas could shove them away and focus on results without their intrusion. And no emotion lingered long. Nothing in undeath ever did. She had learned not to dwell on even the flutterings of them because it was useless to do so. The living Sylvanas would not understand. She had only seen her finality in a dream; only those who had felt their souls sundered from peace could possibly understand.

Arthas had not just brought her back as a hideous banshee, he had forced her to assault what was left of her homeland as such a monster. Bound to him like an extension of his own body, she had killed and tormented her own people, the very ones she had sworn and died to protect. After that, she had slain countless more in his stead, for his glory and purpose. Arthas had taken everything from her. He had desecrated _every_ part of her. He had warped her soul. There was nothing left to salvage. There was only the devastating realization that every single atrocity committed that day was _her fault_. The blood was as much on her hands as it was on his. She had been part of _everything._ What did honor matter after that? What had it gotten her, to begin with? She was damned. There was nothing to redeem, no compassion to be had; she did not deserve it. Sylvanas was left to contend with what remained of her and there was very little of it to matter.

Fate had deemed her unworthy of peace, so she had defied the injustice of it, just like she had defied Arthas and the Lich King and everyone who threatened to take what was left for her to have in the world. She could not afford to care about trivial things that were inconsequential to her ultimate vision. The Forsaken did not deserve what awaited them. Most had done nothing to warrant their undeath, but certainly not the eternity of anguish that would come after their true deaths. Immortality was the only remedial, the only compensation to be had. Only then could they not rot or fall, but thrive with her forever. If she had to eliminate those who threatened their existence — if she had to burn every city to the ground to ensure their ultimate freedom — she would do it. No, she had done it. She did not regret it. She could not. Nothing would change the reality that the Forsaken could not exist in peace if the Alliance survived, just like she could not change what she had done — what had to be done.

_Yet you have been returned to fulfill your true destiny._

It occurred to her that her predicament she was in could be caused, not by the dying prayer of the boy-king, but by the fervent need of her other self to have a different outcome. How ironic that it would be the very monster she rejected who could deliver her from that fate. Perhaps Sylvanas had needed to die, to be raised and made to do all she had, so that she could come here with the resolve to do what the Ranger-General could not. Perhaps she was meant to become the Banshee Queen in one reality, to serve a greater purpose in another. Sylvanas did not like the thought of being used, of being tempered in the hands of an unseen power.

_I will do things as I see fit._

The opportunity in the palm of her hand was unique. Kel’Thuzad had told Arthas that Ner’zhul had long chosen him as his champion even before the inception of the Scourge. Sylvanas knew the orc’s foresight wasn’t all-encompassing; he had failed to see the Arthas’ ultimate betrayal. This created a very unique situation for her. In many ways, Arthas was the key. Taking that key did not mean the door would remain shut forever, but it would stay closed until Ner’zhul found another way to open it. His plans could be stalled and this was enough. What Sylvanas needed was time for a preemptive strike. She knew what Ner’zhul’s mission had been — to pave a path for the Burning Legion — as well as the orc’s personal goal of betraying the demons and taking Azeroth for himself, but all of that was preceded by manipulating Arthas to be his harbinger. No matter how she looked at the situation, to ascertain she was not solely led by a hunger for personal vengeance, the prince needed to perish. There was no other way to buy time.

_You had better look for a different puppet, orc._

The fact that Arthas had fallen in love with her was too good an opportunity to waste, as much as it sickened her. An admiration like the one he had demonstrated could not have vanished so easily. If anything, lust would remain, and that was powerful in its own right. Even in their true past, Arthas had admired the ferocity of her spirit; he had even likedher, as much as a butcher would like one of the sharpest blades in his arsenal. Jaina Proudmoore might have taken his attention away for a moment, but Sylvanas knew the real Arthas; she knew how easily he was swept by dark passions. As exuberantly gorgeous as she was, in all her living glory, he would find it difficult to resist the temptation of potentially having what he had yearned for all those years. When he thought he would finally have her, Sylvanas would slay him, as he deserved.

The plan to lure him came swiftly and it was fortunate that her alternative had paved the path for it. She had already planted the seed of consideration in King Anasterian’s mind about a renewal of their alliance. Her other self had believed, after all, that they would need Lordaeron to fight against the Scourge. It was all too deliciously convenient. She sat at her desk one fine morning, to compose a letter to the prince with an offer he couldn’trefuse. The need for an alliance was not entirely a lie; it was as integral to her assassination plot as it was to her war plans. Arthas, still consumed by goodwill, would agree to meet with her regardless of their personal strain. Sylvanas would be ready for him; she would bury her hatred in order to use the chance to slither her way back into his mind. From there she would destroy him.

_I hope you don’t disappoint me, you fraud of a paladin._

As much as she begrudged to admit it, the journal proved useful. She read it once more, studying all the words and emotions carefully. It was while flipping the last page over, to avoid the final entry which still infuriated her, that she saw something she had missed before. Tucked in the back sleeve, like another secret waiting to be uncovered, Sylvanas pulled out a note that changed everything _._ The angular lines formed two simple sentences.

 ** _I will take care of everything, My Lady._** **_I will bear the burden._**

The handwriting belonged the Blightcaller. This was the sharp scrawl of her champion, not the rushed scribble of the living Nathanos Marris. Her heart, alive and beating as it was, nearly dropped dead. Emotions which had long been dormant gushed forth. Sylvanas dared presume. Her champion had fallen before her victory over the Alliance. Tyrande and the mutt had satisfied themselves with ripping him from her. Nathanos had given up his existence to preserve the very last of her val’kyr. Tyrande had burned his body with Elune’s wrath. Sylvanas believed his soul had been destroyed since she could not call it back to service, no matter how many times she had tried. His death served to confirm what some of her people had forgotten; the Alliance could not share the world with them. Led by the rage of losing one of the most faithful to the cause of the Forsaken, Nathanos’ passing had been like a rallying cry that propelled her army with tireless, destructive force.

_Have you risen here, My Champion?_

The note proved he had. The message was simple but resoundingly clear and it implied so many possibilities. Sylvanas needed to find him. She could not let him act rashly; she could not _l_ ose him again. He was there, in that mockery of life, but at least he was whole once more. Sylvanas wanted him to know that she was there as well, that she was his Dark Lady, and that the facade of her living self was only that, a farce. She wanted to tell him personally, but she could not do so. More than ever she needed the power that came with her position and she couldn’t afford to act out of wits. She also had to fulfill her duty toward Calia and her entourage of holy idiots. Rescinding that offer would cause outrage and offense, especially if it was known who she had gone to see instead of being there, where she was needed.

_And with the Magisters already ruffled by that incident_ _…_

The best change of fate in this time was the death of Dar’Khan Drathir. The betrayer of her people, who had handed them to Arthas on a silver platter, was gone. He had drowned along the path where patrolling rangers should have found and saved him, or so the Magisters’ claimed in their formal complaint regarding the accident. Sylvanas could not help believe Nathanos had facilitated his death. Knowing that he was her champion, she could not see it as a coincidence that the rangers patrolling the area that night had been under his command. Lor’themar had made it sound like Nathanos left to salvage her reputation due to the rumors of their affair, but the Magisters had pushed for the dismissal on account of his alleged incompetence. And her champion had accepted as a strategic decision; he could not move freely as a Ranger Lord, with his allegiance tied to Quel’Thalas.

_You are loyal to me even here._

She kept his note on her person at all times. It was illogical and _foolish_ , but she could not resist her stupid heart. She didn’t want to surrender the only link she had to her real past, to her real existence, to the world where she belonged, for better or worse. Nathanos had left them and returned to his farm, according to Lor’themar. She tasked Kelmarin, one of her most gifted and loyal scouts, to deliver a letter to him. Her champion would be the agent she needed to do the work she could not have her rangers do and to move where she could not go. Sylvanas needed access to questionable substances and a facility where she could create the plagues and poisons that would be their primary weapons in the upcoming wars. The formulas and art of necromancy were perfectly etched in her memories. They had perfected so many strains that would give the Lich King, his Scourge, and all those demons one hell of a fight. She delighted just thinking of all the suffering they would pay them back for.

_Have you foreseen my revenge_ _, Ner’zhul?_

Though Kelmarin had been agile and swift, Sylvanas was nonetheless surprised when he summoned her to deliver his report much sooner than she had anticipated. She waited for him at Thalassian Pass. When she felt him approach, at exactly the appointed time, Sylvanas turned to greet him with a questioning look. He canted his head with respect and withdrew his hood, his long raven hair fluttering with the chilly breeze.

“Ranger-General.” His expression was grim. “I have returned with… _ill_ news.”

“Is Nathanos safe?”

“I am uncertain of his whereabouts, my lady.”

“What then do you have to report?”

“When I arrived at his farm, I was told by a woman that the Ranger Lord transferred ownership of his property to his cousin, Stephon Marris. She said he bought two horses and a wagon with the intention of moving to Lordaeron. He told her that he would be working at the Balnir Farmstead. He asked her to stay at the farm until he sent word for them to flee to Kul Tiras.”

“Flee to Kul Tiras? Why?”

“Something about a plague, my lady.”

Her heart accelerated at the confirmation and she didn’t bother to push the emotion down.

_What more proof do I need than this?_

“With knowledge of his whereabouts, I headed to Lordaeron, but… he never made it there, and I did not make it much further.” Kelmarin was disappointed with himself. “You entrusted such an important mission to me, thinking me skilled, but I—I was ambushed while—”

“I beg your pardon?” She lifted his chin since he’d cast his gaze to the ground in shame. “One of my own, trained by me, was ambushed? Who was this skillful person that has bested one of my men in what he excels at?”

“I could not make out his face. He attacked me from behind, holding a dagger to my throat laced with poison.”

_Who could have possibly achieved such a feat?_

“I felt the presence of others surrounding me too, but far too late. There were about a dozen people. He told me to turn back and deliver the message he had placed in my satchel to the one who had sent me. He told me to tell you _the Black Prince sends his regards to the Banshee Queen_.”

Sylvanas’ eyes narrowed dangerously. “The message. Now!”

Kelmarin removed it from his satchel and handed it to her almost reverently. It was sealed with red wax, but no marks denoted the Black Prince’s identity. She unfurled it quickly. The note itself contained a harmless message that was nonetheless a threat. She fumed at his audacity.

 **_Greetings Warchief._ ** ****  
**_I will take care of your pawn as good as you take care of mine._ ** ****  
**_  
_ ** ****_–W._

Sylvanas crumpled the letter and cursed under her breath. The bastard had taken Nathanos! She had not accounted for his meddlesome ways during the war and now she was potentially paying the price of such a grave oversight. Had the failed excursion to Draenor not been enough? Had that foolish act not precipitated the very event it was intended to prevent? What pawn was he talking about? Certainly, not Calia or Arthas. He would have no reason to protect either one. Sylvanas felt the pressure of a headache throbbing through her skull.

_How unfortunate it is to be alive!_

To know that another player had entered the game, when she had enough to contend with as it was, without adding a dragon-child with an Azeroth guardian complex into the fray, was vexing. This was the last thing she needed.

_I highly doubt this is all his doing. This seems to have been woven before he even hatched. Something else is at work here. Of course, this does not change the fact that I now have to snatch my champion from the clutches of a dragon. Oh, you whelpling, just wait until I find your little pawn._

Sylvanas forced herself to remain in the present and entirely aloof to the news. “You did well in returning to me, scout. I trust you have destroyed the message I sent you to deliver?”

“Of course, my lady. As soon as I was at a safe distance, I burned the note.”

“Very good, Kelmarin. In spite of how shaken you were, you acted accordingly. We are taught to give up our lives, but sometimes we must act in favor of preserving it. This was such a time.”

The sincerity of her words resonated well. Her scout stood taller, once again proud. Kelmarin bowed, then saluted her with his deepest respect. “I thank you for your fortifying reminder, my lady. I will do better to serve my sworn duty. I hope you will give me the opportunity to prove as much in the future.”

“There will be plenty of opportunities to prove yourself useful to me — to our kingdom. For now, return home and rest. I expect you to report for duty on the morrow to Lor’themar. There is much to be done with the arrival of Princess Calia _._ I might have a task for you sooner than you think.”

Kelmarin bowed once more before he vanished into the shadows as easily as he had come. Truly, only a dragon could have caught him unaware. Sylvanas was not allowed much time to think before she sensed a new presence among the trees.

“If it is you, Lor’themar,” she snarled. “I will tell your _butter lips_ about your recent fascination with stalking your Ranger-General at night. I am certain she will not appreciate the hours you’ve spent staring at my rear!”

The figure stepped out of the shadows with a smirk. It was Vereesa, dressed entirely in black as if she was ready to ambush some trolls like a rogue.

“How unexpected,” said Sylvanas. “I thought you only sent Lor’themar to follow me around and do your stalking for you. What business have you at this hour?”

“I came to check on the patrolling rangers,” she replied. “As you know, the Magisters are unsatisfied with our work. I am determined to prove them wrong. Earlier, I received a report of some troll sightings.”

“The reports were quite exaggerated, as usual. There were no trolls, only murlocs. I have slain them all and restored peace to the drunks who confuse two vastly different races,” she said. “As for the Magisters and their demands; do not expend too much effort on them. Only they would think we are supposed to coddle their mages and stop them from making terrible choices, like skipping by the river while they are utterly inebriated.”

There was a faint smile on Vereesa’s lips. “Lor’themar asked them to keep our beverages chilled in exchange for the coddling. It didn’t go over too well with them.”

“I am surprised Lor’themar can even make bad jokes considering how he esteemed the drowned rat,” Sylvanas spat. “Should he not show more restraint in provoking them?”

“As should you, sister!” Vereesa laughed. “If the Magisters heard you speaking with such contempt about Drathir they might assume you sent Marris to push him into the river.”

Sylvanas got a chuckle out of that one.

“Now, sister, don’t give the fools more stupid ideas.”

Vereesa approached her, albeit cautiously. “It is good to see your humor has improved, Sylvanas.”

“Lor’themar disagrees.”

“But secretly loves it.”

She rolled her eyes. “Is that supposed to please me?”

Vereesa bumped her hip. “You love being adored.”

“Not by just anyone,” Sylvanas scoffed.

“He is your friend.”

“Hardly…” she assured. “Should you not be on your way to rouse our rangers and prove we are diligent? Off with you, Vereesa!”

“Surely I can spare myself some minutes to catch up with a most beloved sister,” she said. “I’ve tried talking to you so many times and the result is the same. You give me an excuse and run away.”

“I do not run from _anything._ ”

Vereesa’s triumphant smile indicated that Sylvanas had fallen right into her little sister’s trap.

“Wipe that smug expression off of your face before I remind you who won all our hand-to-hand combat matches.”

“Few of them as we had.”

“Enough for you to remember I won them all.”

“I don’t know, Lady Moon. I learned a few tricks since we’ve last sparred.”

“Not as many as I have learned, Little Moon.”

Vereesa’s smiled widened. “Finally your voice injects some affection when speaking to me!”

“You make it sound as if I’ve hated you for years.”

“These days certainly felt like decades,” she said. “What happened, my sister?”

“I see that you have not come for our rangers,” Sylvanas noted.  “You have come for _me._ ”

Vereesa shrugged a shoulder. “You caught me.”

Sylvanas sighed. How could she explain what seeing her made her feel? As the Banshee Queen, the pain of Vereesa’s abandonment had faded into a dull ache that only served to remind her she was not meant to love anymore. At that moment, however, she was very much alive; her body stirred with emotions.It took all of her will power to remain rooted where she stood and not lash out at Vereesa over something she had not yet done.

“Please, Sylvanas, tell me something _,_ ” she begged. “Anything that will allow me to understand this abrupt change.”

“Let it go, Vereesa.”

“How can I possibly do that when it’s as if you woke up a different person?”

Sylvanas wanted to laugh in her face.

_I am different!_

“Was it something I said? Did I do something—”

“I told you to let it go!”

Vereesa furrowed her brows. “I won’t.”

With a suffering sigh, she threw her hands up. “Fine. Let’s play a little game. I will tell you why I have put some distance between us if you win. Does this seem fair enough?”

“Only if I can pick the game.”

Sylvanas tilted her head, amused. “Go ahead, choose.”

“A race to the beach.”

“Ours?”

“Yes, of course.”

Sylvanas felt her lips tug at the corners. “On the count of three then, little sister?”

“One…” said Vereesa.

Sylvanas smirked mischievously. “Three!”

 _“What?_ This is cheat—”

Sylvanas did not stay to hear the rest of that lame excuse. They glided through the forest as graceful as gazelles. It was almost like being young again when they had chased each other in their games of catch. Sylvanas closed her eyes, knowing the terrain so well she did not even have to see it. She was guided by her instincts, by the muscle memory of having spent a lifetime there. The life which hummed through the forest, the feel of the earth against the soles of her boots were all things she relished. How long had it been since she felt such an array of sensations that brought her the faintest inkling of pleasure? Being alive, being whole — it felt incredible at that moment. She almost forgot herself. She almost forgot she was not truly living — that none of it was real.

_Stop this at once. This joy will not last. It never does._

The scent of the sea came before she realized it and though Windrunner Spire hid the face of the moon from her line of sight, she could still see its shimmering reflection over the curling ocean beyond her home. She made her way down to the beach and noted there were already fresh footprints in the sand. Vereesa was there, collapsed and totally out of breath. Sylvanas was impressed. She must have taken the shortcut.Cunning of her to do so. Had Sylvanas not been so caught up in useless feelings she might have remembered to use it to her advantage. Still, she could not help feel the smallest swell of pride. Her sister had finally bested her in a game she had always won. In another time, she might have celebrated, but now, with the stakes being what they were, the defeat was sorely welcome. She unlaced her boots and discarded them so that she could feel the sand between her toes. Vereesa had a ghost of a smile on her lips when she finally reached her side.

“Look at you,” she cooed. “That complacent face.”

“I learned from the best!” One eye opened to regard her. Vereesa’s arms and legs opened wide. She looked like a starfish. “I couldn’t have won without that little advantage. You’re so much faster than I remembered.”

_I was even faster in death._

Sylvanas sat by her side, her eyes fixed on the ocean. The lull of the waves as they broke into the shore was soothing. For a moment she almost wished she could stay like that forever, but time had never been an ally.

“I am here to listen, whenever you are ready.”

Sylvanas closed her eyes, uncertain. She wanted so much to express the torment of that time that kept her from being able to pretend she was the same sister Vereesa had known, but she couldn’t tell her the truth.

“It’s just the two of us here.”

“I know, but it does not make this easier.” Taking a deep breath, she started to find a way. “Recently, I had a dream. A dream where I had died and been made into something twisted. I existed that way for a long time. So long, in fact, that I lost the sense of any feelings I had in life. I believed myself incapable of the good ones… until you found me again. You made me realize… how _lonely_ I had truly been.”

Sylvanas grabbed a fistful of sand trying to reign in the emotions, forcing herself to speak through the knot in her throat.

“All the feelings I believed had gone with my very life came back to me. You made me yearn for what I no longer had a right to want, much less have. You promised you would be with me, that you would stay with me. You gave me hope when I had believed it beyond my reach or capacity to have. You made it seem that it didn’t matter that I had become that monstrosity because you _loved_ me nonetheless.”

Vereesa sat upright, her posture tense with worry. “Of course I would love you.”

“Not enough! You _abandoned_ me. You left me even though I—I _pleaded_. I pleaded as I have never pleaded to anyone! I wanted you to stay with me. I wanted you there. I wanted my sister back. And what did I get in return? Nothing! You could not even relay your choice to my face.” Her voice rose with each word. “You wrote me a letter to inform me that you chose to leave me all alone. You didn’t care what that did to me! You probably thought I would not feel anything anyways because _I was dead._ Because the lot of you thinks we do not **feel,**  we do _want_ , we do not _yearn,_  but oh, Vereesa — we do!”

Her sister was stunned by the emotion with which she spoke of what was supposed to be a dream. Sylvanas did not look away, did not withdraw her rage, did not downplay the hurt. Vereesa’s voice was gentle and it was like rubbing the wound with salt.

“I understand that such a dream shook you, but the reality is we are both alive and present.”

Sylvanas wanted to scream, yet the only sound that escaped her lips was a strangled cry of anger. _Alive._ Her sister thought she was alive! Present! She was not. She was dead. She was a banshee, momentarily trapped in a living body, in another time! Sylvanas turned away, not trusting her voice or composure. Vereesa placed a tentative hand on her shoulder. Sylvanas shrugged it off with a fierce growl.

“Don’t you dare say it was just a dream.”

This time, her sister’s voice was firmer but still tender. “I would not invalidate your feelings just because it is a dream, Sylvanas. What you feel is very real. The reaction it has caused, for you to push me away, it must have been a terribly vivid dream. I couldn’t fault you for feeling as you do. The only thing I want you to consider is that we are both alive. We are together now.”

“You only need to be alive to die.”

“You couldn’t possibly consider me capable of leaving you in the state as you have described. I would never.”

“Don’t!” Sylvanas snarled. Her entire body trembled. “You— just don’t _._  Don’t you dare make another promise you cannot keep.”

“What promises have I not kept before?” Vereesa demanded. “Tell me!”

Sylvanas bit her tongue to keep herself from shouting out exactly which ones because this Vereesa was not guilty of them. She would be — someday — if this life played out as the other one had, but at that moment, she was not. Taking a deep breath, she tried to return to calmness, to rationality. How difficult it was to muster such control when her heart was furiously pounding against her chest with anguish.

“Time breaks every bond,” she said, echoing words she had spared many others. “You will prove that much to me.”

_As will Alleria._

“Time cannot break love, Sylvanas.”

“Tell me, then, sister — if I did things that went against all the values you hold dear, would you still love me?”

“You would _never…”_

She laughed bitterly. “What if I told you I will end up developing plagues and testing them on livingsubjects? What would you think if I told you I wouldn’t blink twice over killing innocent bystanders if one hated foe could perish from that assault? What if one day I ended up serving those we’ve hunted? Would you still love me if I set Teldrassil ablaze, with everyone in it as—”

Vereesa gripped her by the arms and shook her as if trying to break her free from whatever she perceived had possessed her. “Stop this! Stop! This isn’t _you_.”

“People change. People harden. People cease to care.”

Vereesa’s eyes welled with tears of impotence. Sylvanas recoiled from the hand that came up to hold her face; she could see that there was a part of Vereesa that found truth in Sylvanas’ words.

“You know I am right, don’t you, Little Moon?”

There it was, the sore spot. Vereesa’s hands slid down her arms. “I too have had dreams.”

Sylvanas’ ears twitched.

“I have known you all my life. I have spent all of these years adoring and admiring you, wanting to emulate you. I can sense the subtlest changes. Even your gait has shifted. The way your body moves in training, your response time and triggers, all of it is as if you were a hardened warrior who has survived more than the battles we have fought. I look upon you now and see a woman who has endured what I cannot even fathom.”

Sylvanas felt her mouth go dry.

“Now, I understand why. You have dreamed of war so horrific that it haunts you…”

“What if these were not just dreams, Vereesa?”

“Yes, what if they were not? I asked this as well. Many times.” Vereesa took a moment to gather herself. “In my dream, I saw you in a forest. It was so dark and dreary. You were very different. Your eyes, no longer blue, but a glowing red. You were…” Her voice broke and she tried to stifle a sob. “You were so angry. So hurt. Your ashen skin was bathed in blood. The sounds... your gut-wrenching wails, the sight of you ripping apart beasts with your bare hands. I am still tormented by all of it.”

_How dare they show you **my** memory_ _?_

Sylvanas’ voice came out strained. “I looked like a monster, did I not?”

“You looked like my sister,” Vereesa wept. “As incredibly broken as you were, you were still mine _._ Every bit my Lady Moon. I will not let anything take you away from me again.”

Her ears flattened against her head, “Again?”

“I remain here because of you. Marrying Rhonin meant leaving you and I could not bring myself to do it. The dream is old, but it shook me. I thought it was nothing to worry about when time passed, and you remained the same, but this change of late…” Her eyes searched Sylvanas as if trying to find answers to questions she had not voiced. “When Lor’themar told me what he saw you do in the forest I knew— I just knew. It was happening. This sense of dread that has long clung to me was not a figment of my imagination. Something is coming for us… for you _._  I don’t know if there is another life beyond this one, another time or place, but if I ever failed you — even if it was only in a dream — I will not do so again. I will be here. I will stay until the bitter end. You are everything to me. You are my most precious person. I would die for you, Sylvanas.”

_Stop… I don’t want to hear this. I can’t—_

“Look at me and know this, Sylvanas. Become what you will, do what you do, or say what you say — I will _never_ forsake you.”

It was that single word that had Sylvanas come undone. The Forsaken had been the perfectly apt name of her people, of what they had become to the living. They had been forgotten, rejected, and hunted like vermin. They were the outcasts of the world, denied compassion and understanding by most. Even their allies were suspicious and cautious of them. The name was perfect for a faction composed of frail-bodied beings who rotted away in oblivion. But not all were like that. There was her — possessing a body that, if not for its color and coldness, was not much different than it had been in life. And yet she too had been forsaken. As celebrated as she had been in life, respected and admired for all manner of reasons — a hero of her people — in the end, she had been separated from all those merits and virtues on account of her undeath. The opinion of all who drew breath was the same and yet there was her sister, having seen the banshee in her most psychotic state, and she swore would _never_ _forsake her_.

It hurt more than when Arthas had stabbed Frostmourne through her.

“Please, believe me. This time is different.”

Vereesa reached for her hands and Sylvanas permitted her to take them. Her sister held them tightly against her chest. Sylvanas could feel the strong heartbeat underneath, could hear her own heart bursting as emotions choked her. Being alive felt so overwhelming after having been dead for so long. Everything was amplified and vibrant; at that moment she was overcome with an unbearable sense of longing. Tears blurred her vision. She did not want to return to the weakness of crippling emotions. She tore herself from Vereesa and stood. She walked to the shore to dip her feet in the water. The cold waves lapped at her, distracting her from the pain. She had to stop this madness before she sunk deeper into the humanity of her own being. She could not allow it.

The reprieve did not last. Her sister slipped her arms around her waist, resting her chin on her shoulder. Her own hands clasped over Vereesa’s convulsively, needing her so much. Sylvanas loved her fiercely, even in undeath. Arthas had crippled her capacity to love, but he hadn’t taken it entirely away, though he had tried. The first to show her she could feel was Nathanos, then Vereesa, who had made her realize she was perfectly capable of the same human failings even as a Forsaken. Undeath had hardened her and she could not remember how to be soft _._ She could not remember how to love in return or how to express it. Even so, Sylvanas felt the fondness collapse on her anger. She could not hold back the sobs, could not hold back tears. They poured down cheeks that had once been marked by the stains of them, the very last droplets of her humanity, shed at the time of her death.

Vereesa held her tighter, whispering a poem that their mother used to sing to them when they were agitated. The soothing rhythm comforted her in a way she had forgotten she could be comforted. In time, everything stilled, and the agony dissipated. All that was left was a warmth like a summer day.

* * *

Sylvanas was up before dawn. Sleep — as wasteful as it was — served to renew not just her energy, but also her sanity. She was thankful she did not dream. Her mind slipped into a quiet rest that was welcome after being wide awake for so long. In the morning, she had clarity. The previous night had been too emotional for her liking. She had admonished herself for succumbing to pathetic weeping, especially in front of Vereesa. They had returned home as they used to as children — hands linked and almost skipping — and then spent a couple of hours talking about meaningless things, though a full day of duty awaited them both the next day. Sylvanas humored Vereesa by minding the latest gossip. The two had laughed a lot. Genuine laughter. She could not lie to herself — she had enjoyed it. For just that bit of time, she had not been haunted by her past. She had only been Sylvanas, the sister Vereesa loved. She had even believed her Little Moon’s promise to not forsake her. She had been overjoyed. It was a new day, however, and with it, the excitement had dissolved. Sylvanas realized her folly for permitting herself to fall into old habits. She didn’t know what the future held. If she managed to survive in that thread of time, would she be allowed to stay and keep the life she would salvage? She doubted it. Fate had never been kind to her.

_Isn’t returning to your true time what you want?_

Sylvanas did not like that she hesitated on the answer. A good life was not hers to have. To think she could stay there — that she could have happiness, of all things — was a mistake. There was nothing to gain from indulging in pulpy feelings. Wasting time was also not an option. There was a princess to manipulate, a dragon to hunt, a champion to rescue, a prince to kill, and a conniving orc’s masterful plan to foil. If she was truly lucky, perhaps Archimonde would not even be summoned into their world. She needed every bit of the Banshee Queen’s equanimity and ruthless resolve to even hope of succeeding in one of those objectives.

When Sylvanas arrived at Silvermoon, Liadrin brought her to meet King Anasterian. His Majesty was in such good spirits that he had called for his son to join them for the banquet to honor the Menethil princess that evening. Sylvanas would not put it past Kael’thas to posture an interest in Calia merely to spite Arthas. What better way to scorn him over Jaina than by breaking his sister’s heart? If he tried such a stunt, the banquet would be far more interesting to attend. Perhaps she would propose the idea to him for a bit of good fun. She knew it would be strange to play nice with a woman she had killed, but Sylvanas was certain it was the perfect opportunity to test her control in that living body that felt toomuch. If she could survive Calia’s visit without violent incidents, then she was confident she could muster the same hypocrisy to mingle with her brother when the time came.

King Anasterian spoke in favor again of renewing their alliance with Lordaeron and it was the first good news for a morning that started rough. His Majesty looked more magnificent than usual, clad in one of his most intricate robes and adorned with dazzling jewels befitting a god. Sylvanas shook away the intrusive memory of him sprawled on the ground, blood pooling beneath him, his exceedingly long hair spread about him like a mantle; a powerful and wise king felled by Frostmourne was one of her most bitter memories of that day. At times, such visions came unbidden in this life and she did not know why. When the King dismissed them, Sylvanas could not help glancing over her shoulder to take in the sight of him in the throne room one more time. She felt the heavy burden of her failures once more. It was a physical pain now.

_What is happening to me now?_

Sylvanas was not allowed time to ponder, as usual. The two high elves mounted their hawkstriders and made their way to Farstrider Square. Upon entering her headquarters, she offered Liadrin a seat. The priestess was glad for a moment of quiet in a day that would be long for them all. Sylvanas took out the map she had prepared for the purpose of Calia’s visit and spread it over her table, pinning it with bronze figurines of murlocs which Lor’themar custom made for her. The story went that he had given them to her on her last birthday and she had tossed them at his head, nearly killing him. As many times as she had thrown them away, the figurines would make their way back to her headquarters — like a curse — and eventually, she found them useful.

Liadrin pointed at the ugly things and chortled. “Are those what I think?”

“Lor’themar paid a blacksmith to make them for me. You should be jealous. I don’t think he has ever gifted you an uglier thing than these!”

“His sense of humor refreshes me.”

“You have terrible taste.”

“As annoyed as you want to come off, you still keep them around.”

“He made it impossible for me to get rid of them. Perhaps I should double his duties. It seems he has too much time to waste.”

“As long as you do not send him far away.”

“What a lovely idea…”

“Sylvanas.”

She threw her hands up. “And people complain I am too uptight if I don’t make jokes.”

“Do you think it’s wise to have Prince Kael’thas join us?” Liadrin pinched the bridge of her nose. “I know he is the son of His Majesty — and he would be the first to feel the joy that we are opening ourselves to the world again — but I cannot help feeling it doesn’t bode well.”

“Why wouldn’t it? As far as I know, Prince Kael’thas only has an issue with her brother.”

“Twice has Prince Arthas taken someone from him—”

“If you are counting me as one of those losses, then don’t. I never belonged to them.”

Liadrin glanced at the map, though it was obvious she wasn’t minding her strategic placement of rangers or the routes of the tours she had planned for their visitors. “That doesn’t change the fact that they perceive it as a loss. You know how men are. They are possessive fools when it comes to women.”

“Not all men are that basic. Perhaps you have been unlucky in meeting the worst ones.”

Sylvanas had never been close to Liadrin — not enough so having that kind of conversation was appropriate, but given the ease with which Liadrin fell into the topic, she adjusted herself to fit into the friendship they seemingly had here.

“But, if it might appease you, I doubt Prince Kael’thas would squander this opportunity. He knows that allies are important. We don’t need to like our allies—” And here, Sylvanas couldn’t help think of Trade Prince Gallywix with a curl of her lips. “We merely need to tolerate them.”

“For the sake of prosperity, I hope you are right.” Liadrin pointed at the southern gate on the map. “The Royal Guard should be here by noon. I thought of sending some of our—”

“I already took care of that,” said Sylvanas. “I dispatched my rangers to meet them ahead of their arrival. I wanted to be sure the path was _clear_ but I didn’t want them to perceive it as such, lest they go back to Lordaeron and claim we have scoundrels just beyond our gates or worse...”

“A wise move. What excuse did you send them off with?”

Sylvanas smirked. “My rangers took a generous supply of our finest delicacies. I had them suggest a brief stop at Quel’Lithien Lodge for breakfast. I’m sure the humans will appreciate the gesture given they’ve spent days eating nothing but boar on a spit. That is, assuming there is a competent hunter among them.”

“From what I was told, the young priest is gifted with the bow,” Liadrin said. “Don’t look at me that way. Marris isn’t the only human who can shoot arrows with success.”

Sylvanas raised a brow. “I thought he would be coming with the princess by mage portal.”

Liadrin chuckled. “It seems he felt more comfortable with traditional methods of travel.”

Sylvanas scoffed. “Is the commoner scared of portal magic?”

“Calia says he wanted to enjoy the scenery.”

Sylvanas couldn’t help laughing. “That sounds exactly like something someone scared of portal magic would say.”

“Perhaps,” said Liadrin. “But he isn’t benighted if this is what you are trying to imply.”

“You should have told me sooner, Liadrin. Do I need to rush on a dragonhawk to personally greet this commoner who has so profoundly moved Arthas? One who would prefer traveling with cargo instead of taking a mage portal, as most sane people would opt to do?”

“I didn’t know you were close enough to the prince to call him by name,” Liadrin observed.

“Did your lover not tell you we have spent years writing each other?”

“Is that so? Well then, if you wish to impress upon Prince Arthas by being hospitable to his dear friend, by all means, go meet up with your rangers. They should have reached the lodge by now if you sent them off as early as I imagine you would.”

“I do not necessarily wish to impress anyone. I am only curious about this commoner who has managed to achieve what not many humans can boast about. I would bet he never imagined he might be permitted to enter the Sunwell.”

“Yes, I do suppose you would be fascinated, considering your predilection for human commoners. And since I just told you he’s good with a bow,” Liadrin gave her a once over. “It would seem he fits your taste. He grew up on a farm like Marris, too.”

“This constant mockery of my admiration for the skills of a great archer will not do,” huffed Sylvanas. “Are you being so curt and purposefully bitter about Nathanos on account of the one pleasing you in bed? Is _he_ still hung up about being out-shot by a mere human farmer?”

If she thought the words would provoke Liadrin to answer in kind, she was disappointed. The smile the other high elf offered was cutting, but there was mirth in her bright eyes. “Sylvanas Windrunner, the Ranger-General with a temperament of steel, shows color when her favorite human male is brought to mention!”

“You make it sound like I _collect_ human men,” snorted Sylvanas. “Is it my fault that I find them better companions than those who prattle on about the dust in their robes?”

“Far be it for me to judge the preferences of anyone, dear Sylvanas,” she said. “I just wanted to remind you of a commoner you adore so that you might remember to check your tone when speaking about and to the one who will be our guest. We would not want a diplomatic crisis on our hands over a _commoner_ , would we?”

“My, my… if I didn’t know better I might question this fondness Arthas has for him.”

Liadrin shot her a mortified look. “ _Sylvanas_ …”

“Fear not, milady,” and the Banshee Queen’s sarcasm seeped out in her tone. She offered Liadrin her most extravagant curtsy. “I am well versed in the art of diplomacy.”

“Hopefully better versed than you were when you met Prince Arthas the first time. Our kingdoms almost went to war because of you.”

“Because of them — that arrogant prince duo — not me. All I did was attend the party that was graciously hosted in my honor. What was I supposed to do? Indulge them? When have I ever?”

“I would never suggest you indulge them if you’re not enthused by their attention, but there are far more discreet ways to scorn a royal than public rejection, Sylvanas.”

“Instead of wasting breath over this, Liadrin, why not tell me more about this priest, so that I may have at least some points to respect about him, other than saving Arthas’ life.”

“You want to know more about Anduin?”

Sylvanas must have misheard. “What was that name again?”

“Anduin. His name is Anduin Balnir.”

Sylvanas braced herself against the table. The name had belonged to a celebrated hero of the Alliance. It was not a far-fetched idea that any commoner would give their son that name. It would have been a perfectly logical and acceptable explanation, too, if not for the simple fact that Wrathion had mentioned a pawn and the whelp had been close to the lion cub of Stormwind. Her brows furrowed.

_But this is a commoner… not a Wrynn._

Every single person in that time was in their rightful place, fulfilling the same roles they had in the life Sylvanas had lost. The deviations had related to choices and timing, even encounters, but not identities.

“ _Balnir_? The horse breeders?”

“Yes, he is their son.”

_Balnir Farmstead… where Nathanos was headed… and where Wrathion intervened._

Sylvanas gripped the table so hard that had she still possessed her undead strength, she would have snapped it in half. The rage that never truly subsided exploded, scorching through her veins like molten lava. Her vision blurred as her whole body trembled in barely contained fury. Sylvanas was moving before she realized it. What started as a sprint turned into a mad dash. Liadrin followed after her — calling her name — but she did not stop. Nothing would stop her. Her duty had kept her from Nathanos, but it would not keep her from Wrathion’s pawn. A pawn that was within reach, within reason to grasp, and she would not let him slip through her fingers. Sylvanas skidded past the flight master and spared him not a single word as she swung over the saddle of the enormous dragonhawk and gripped the reins from him. The powerful, yet delicate wings of the creature flapped vigorously, forcing the onlookers to hold their ground as it pushed away from them. The beast undulated upwards, taking her higher. She urged the creature to go full speed, lowering her body close to it so that it could feel the urgency of her own heartbeat. They soared swiftly through the sky, her homeland a blur of vibrant colors below. This was her first time leaving Quel’Thalas since she awakened there, her first time gazing at the lands beyond her own while they were still untouched by the defilement of the Scourge. And those lands were also as pretty as she remembered they were. The hills were still covered by lush grass, the trees were tall and thick with foliage; everything was untainted and pristine and though she hated herself for it, she saddened.

Sylvanas dropped her altitude for reconnaissance. The main road was deserted. She turned toward Quel’Lithien Lodge, descending further. Two of her rangers were outside guarding the modestly sized caravan carrying Calia Menethil’s belongings. They spoke to a man on a marvelous horse with a coat similar in color to her own hair. The rider threw his head back in boisterous laughter, the hood of his teal cloak falling so that threads of pure gold spilled from it. There was no doubt about it. This was Anduin Llane Wrynn. He was there too. Alive. Once more a priest, but a friend of Arthas Menethil, _somehow_. He was there as a simple man, a filthy commoner with connections to the one Sylvanas hated most in the world. He paraded with the clothes of a noble. And, he did look the part, of course. Anduin retained every bit of his princely good looks. He was stunning, in fact, bewitching even her rangers. The appraisal of him tugged at her in ways she had not felt in years. Something akin to arousal washed over her as she noticed the faintest flaxen stubble on his unmarred face.

The shadow of her mount made them all look up. She had nearly landed without intending, but she would not pull away now. Not when the boy looked at her thatway. His cerulean eyes went wide upon taking in the fury in her blue-grays. There was recognition. It was no different than the shocked fear of a deer who noticed the tigress far too late. He would have no reason to fear her if he was just a commoner who happened to luck out on having Anduin Wrynn’s face. He swallowed hard, flushed an embarrassing shade of pink. How could she blame his response? He was gazing upon the living Sylvanas Windrunner and she had always been a sight that took the breath of many away. She relished the attention, utterly amused by the fact that he was kindled thatway by an enemy.

_You were brave to venture out here where you must have known you would find me._

Then, it hit her. He wanted to find her. It was evident in the way he pushed himself to look at her in spite of his apprehension. He defied his fear and stood his ground. This almost diffused her anger completely, melting it into something more wicked. Anduin Wrynn would have no other reason to pursue an excursion to the Sunwell if it were not the perfect excuse to set foot on Quel’Thalas. What other reason could he have to go to her homeland if not to ascertain she was not the Banshee Queen? She wanted to laugh. The boy was playing a hunter! She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction quite yet, no.

Sylvanas dropped herself from the dragonhawk, landing with perfect grace. The anger simmered, but the thrill of the hunt was far more overpowering; he ignited her in ways no prey ever had. She stood there for a moment so that he could see her well so that he could perceive who was coming for him and the effect she had didn’t disappoint. As much as the little lion tried to dissimulate it, as quickly as he averted his gaze from the swell of her swaying hips, she could see the throbbing pulse at his throat. He was either terrified or taken by her and both would serve her just as well. She could see his mind coming undone with all the thoughts flashing through those eyes. How she had wanted to corner this one from the beginning! How good it felt to see him accept that he had nowhere to run. Slowly, Anduin dismounted his horse because his manners preceded him, like a good little King.

Her rangers observed her. They knew her body language, knew her battle stance and saw her eyes were locked on a mousy target that made no sense for her to pursue. He was a guest of Quel’Thalas, an esteemed friend of the House of Menethil, and though she wanted very much to throw him over her shoulder and sequester him without preamble, she could not. There were unseen eyes upon them and she still had no idea where Wrathion had taken Nathanos. The boy could count himself lucky because of that alone, but it didn’t mean she could not have her way with him where eyes couldn’t pry. When she finally reached them, she tore her gaze away from the cub to regard her rangers. How strange that the ones here would be these, Sheldaris and Vor’athil, the very first who had fallen to the Scourge in front of her very eyes.

“At ease,” she told them.

“Ranger-General,” said Sheldaris, her red hair tied in a high tail that morning. “We did not expect you would come.”

“Even I didn’t know I would need to come,” Sylvanas’ smile was feral. “But when Liadrin told me that one of our guests was traveling with the Royal Guard, I could not stay behind. With as much as I… _esteem_ … our common friend, the Prince of Lordaeron, I had to come personally.”

Upon hearing this her rangers exchanged looks. Sylvanas sharply raised a brow at them. A heartbeat later, they nodded vigorously. Sheldaris was quick to confirm, “Yes, of course.”

Sylvanas eyed the people who were visible on the terrace of the lodge, counting how many there were out of habit. Six had accompanied the cargo from Lordaeron. Some of the finest and most well trained, she was certain, but none of them had taken notice of the commotion below them. Typical, really. Few humans were as keen as they. The guards were sharing the meal with her other rangers, who did notice her but caught her signal to remain in their positions.

“Where is he?” Sylvanas asked Sheldaris. “I should see our guest for myself and extend the most sincere welcome.”

At last, her prey spoke with that same righteous voice of his that grated her nerves. His eyes were really too reflective of his inner turmoils.

_Windows to the soul, indeed._

“I am here, my lady.”

The bow he gave her betrayed more of his groomed manners. He looked just the same, only marginally older, but physically much stronger, his shoulders somehow broader. His skin was bronzed by the sun. There was a presence to him that he had lacked as the King of Stormwind, even with all that impressive armor he once wore. A calloused hand extended to her. These were the palms of a man who had worked and not spent his entire childhood reading books. How far had the King of Stormwind fallen? From a pampered prince who had not deserved the throne that his father vacated, to a horse breeder’s son without title or power. Whatever indistinguishable force had brought them there had not been merciful to him. She almost pitied him if not for that defiant fire in his eyes that showed her he was proud to be that man.

“I am Anduin Balnir. I humbly thank you for your courtesy in coming all the way here to welcome me when I don’t deserve such honor.”

Sylvanas removed her leather gloves and took his hand. His eyes did not falter as his grip tightened around her. His hand was so warm and rough. Liking the challenge, she squeezed back, strengthened by years of archery and combat. In their other life, they had never touched. This was all so very ridiculous that she could not help grinning.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Sylvanas Windrunner,” her voice was as clear as a bell. “Ranger-General of Silvermoon. On behalf of King Anasterian, I welcome you.”

“Thank you for having me, Lady Windrunner.”

The little lion’s eyes bore into hers. He was truly determined in figuring out which Sylvanas stood before him. Her smile, practiced and perfect, spread her lips wide. The sight of it distracted him, as intended.

“Tell me, Mister Balnir—”

“Please, just call me Anduin.”

She waved a hand to the dragonhawk. “Since I am flying back, would you like to ride with me, Anduin?”

The priest glanced at her rangers who stood as still as statues. They did not blink, they barely breathed, they only observed the exchange with perfectly blank faces. She knew them, though, and could tell they were baffled by her being there.

Anduin cleared his throat. “You are… inviting _me_? To ride a dragonhawk… with you?”

Sylvanas tilted her head. “Are you scared of the beast?”

“No… I— no.”

“Then, are you scared of _me_?”

The blush deepened delectably. Anduin shook his head. Her rangers were pitying him. Not many could withstand her when she went on the prowl.

“Then you should have no problem. Unless, of course, you distrust—” she let the word hang deliberately, much to his dismay. “—my riding skills, that is.”

Sylvanas could only enjoy the look on his face upon him realizing the trap she had set before him — one he would have to walk himself into. He wouldn’t be able to refuse her if she put it that way and they both knew it.

He swallowed dry. “I know you are very skilled at everything you do…”

“Is that so?” Sylvanas took a step closer. His breath caught. He had been a lot braver in the throne room of Lordaeron, but she had also been dead and in his mind defeated. She was neither of those here. “Did Arthas tell you that about me, Anduin?”

He tried his hardest to focus on her eyes, but every so often his gaze dipped to her lips. “He has only said the very best about you, Lady Windrunner.”

“With that in mind, what is your answer concerning my offer to ride with me?”

“You see, my lady… my horse...”

With a flick of her wrist, she said. “Vor’athil, please handle it.”

“She doesn’t like anyone but me to—”

The words died when Anduin saw the steed easily give to her ranger. Vor’athil had always been excellent with animals since his specialty was taming even the rarest of beasts. She smiled wickedly at the look Anduin shot his horse. She could almost hear him reproach her betrayal.

“Vor’athil will bring your beloved horse to our stables and care for it while you return.” Sylvanas turned to Anduin. “Any other concerns I should ease for you?”

“You… you are _far_ too kind, Lady Windrunner.”

“Shall we?”

The priest spared a glance at the dragonhawk. She knew he wasn’t concerned about the animal. What worried him was her _._ He wasn’t convinced by her — in fact, Sylvanas would dare say that he knew exactly who stood before him. That made her smile all the more. It would only make it more fun when she tore answers from him if he knew her to be the Dark Lady. Taking a deep breath, Anduin made his way to the dragonhawk who — having been tamed for taxiing anyrider — only looked at the human curiously before bowing its head to let the priest mount. The corner of her lips twitched in bemusement at his continued show of bravery. Anduin slipped into the back of the ample saddle, made to fit two. He gave a smile that was meant to convince himself that he was alright.

_Poor fool._

Sylvanas turned to her rangers. “Sheldaris, please tell Lady Liadrin that I will personally escort Anduin to Silvermoon before the banquet. As for you, Vor’athil, after you ensure his horse is well taken care of, inform Lor’themar of my plans to give our guest a _thorough_ aerial tour of our beloved Quel’Thalas. When he asks why I would do such a thing, because he will, tell him I was _so moved_ by the fact that the priest preferred traveling on a caravan, just to appreciate the scenery, that I couldn’t help want to do something _nice_ for the friend of the prince. Not a single dragonhawk should be in the air until I return since he’s so… frightened.”

“It will be relayed as you have commanded, my lady.”

She saluted them and sauntered back the wondrous beast that would see their return. She looked up at Anduin. “Scoot forward. I never ride with anyone on my back,” she said. “Unless you feel intimidated being safely encased in the arms of a woman such as I.”

Her name was on the edge of his lips, she could see the first syllable die on them as he caught himself. For a boy who had been trained to keep his composure, he was certainly failing at maintaining the farce. Sylvanas took hold of his hips and pulled him to the front, right where she wanted him — at her mercy. She swung on behind him, her arms going around his sides to take the reins.

She leaned over his shoulder, a breath away from his flushed ear, and whispered. “Are you prepared, _little lion_?”

She felt him tense. Anduin tried to turn, possibly to reason with her, hopefully, to beg — and she would let him do plenty of that later — but at that moment, the fury boiled, and she was finally able to indulge it with him in her grasp. She bit his earlobe — hard until she tasted blood. His cry of pain was muffled by the sound of flapping wings. They launched into the sky. He didn’t move. He had gone as hard as a stone.

“Don’t worry, dethroned boy-king. I have no plans of letting you die...  _yet_. Your dragon has something of mine that I want back and I plan to exchange you for him.”

* * *

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was "in labor" with this chapter for two months. In case you thought I was joking about the lore/timeline situation — here you go, I wasn't. If I keep nit-picking things I'll never post anything, so here we go. A little rough around the edges.
> 
> A few of us writing for this ship have started AU's with Sylvanas and Anduin, so do check it out if you're inclined.
> 
> Until next time! Thanks for reading. I hope you all have a Happy Valentine's Day or Single Awareness Day — or whatever you fancy on Feb. 14.


	6. Leap of Faith

* * *

 

If the Light had made Anduin a shield for Arthas’ redemption, Fate could have chosen Sylvanas as the blade of retribution. The Prince of Lordaeron had fallen in love with a woman who had the potential of becoming his worst nightmare. Feelings which Arthas had thought long resolved, following Sylvanas’ rejection, awakened by the irrational thought that she could fall for Anduin when they soon met. The prince’s lust for her was potent enough to cause a rupture in his relationship with Jaina Proudmoore. Anduin carried a letter tucked under the tunic he wore beneath his silk robes, penned by the hand of Arthas, proposing a secret meeting to Lady Sylvanas Windrunner. No other person could he trust, except Anduin, to deliver a message that might be misconstrued if it fell in the wrong hands. Little did the prince know that the worst hands could be the very ones the letter was intended for. The days Anduin would be permitted to stay at Silvermoon were not enough to decipher the true identity of the Ranger-General. A huntress of her caliber would not pounce on her prey at an inopportune moment. Exposing her true identity would be reckless, especially to him who she would know would try to stop her schemes. The mission before him was complicated; on one hand, he was compelled to protect Arthas by keeping the letter from Sylvanas, as a measure of precaution, but on the other hand, he knew that failure to deliver the message could have the prince interpret his intentions as something different.

With so much at stake, Anduin chose to accompany the Royal Guard, much to Arthas’ objection, needing the solitude to clear his mind. The days on the road had been beneficial to his mood and resolve. He strengthened his faith by devoting himself to prayer and ministered to the worn out soldiers tasked with guarding the princess’ valuables on the long journey to Quel’Thalas. He practiced his spells and hymns in the wilderness, hunted with the soldiers for their sustenance, and at night he sometimes slept outside his tent by the fire to gaze at the stars. He savored freedom he’d seldom had as a prince, much less as a king. The life of a common man was liberating and refreshing. The work at the farmstead was never as arduous as the duties of a royal He had wondered what had happened to the life he had left behind once more. There were still too many questions unanswered about the time he had borrowed, about the world he was in and the purpose of it all.

As the days drew closer to their arrival at Quel’Thalas, Anduin thought of Sylvanas. The tidbits he knew of the living ranger were anecdotes shared by two sisters who mourned the loss of their dearest sibling while they had strategized a war against her. Alleria said the Dark Lady was a mockery of her sister, a cruel illusion crafted by the Lich King who resembled only fragments of who Sylvanas had been, but was no longer. Vereesa did not share the same opinion. She swore her sister was there, deep beneath the throes of undeath. That faith had been partly what gave Anduin hope that even if the Dark Lady was there, he could reach into that buried humanity and pull it out. He prayed the goodness in her, removed from the world she endeavored to conquer, would win against the vengeful spirit Arthas had created. If he was lucky, he might arrive with enough time to observe Sylvanas from a distance, before their official meeting came with Calia’s arrival later that day. He wanted to see what she was like when she thought no one was watching, to perhaps figure who she was before she could see he was Anduin, the boy-king she mocked, as the Dark Lady.

Fate, however, did not grant him such respite.

When Anduin saw Sylvanas Windrunner dismounting the auburn dragonhawk, her beauty as dazzling in every perfect detail as was claimed, possessing confidence only a woman used to commanding admiration could have, he knew he was doomed. Her voice, lacking the eerie echo of undeath, was melodious and smooth. She was coquette and proud, every bit the living incarnation Vereesa had described. Though nothing in the way she moved or spoke betrayed a shadow of the Banshee Queen, in a moment where their gazes held for several heartbeats, a dull ache rumbled through his bones. It was such an intimately familiar pain, one he had learned to live with since the shattering of the Divine Bell but had swiftly forgotten living as Anduin Balnir. He could not ignore what it meant. As alive and arresting as she was, beneath that exquisite exterior, she still had the bearing of the Dark Lady.

For that was exactly who she was.

When she called him _little lion_ , in that sly purr, his hope faltered. She had him riding a beast under her command, his ear bleeding from a rabid bite that betrayed exactly how she felt about him. Countless thoughts filled his mind. Why was Wrathion meddling? Was that time all his inception? Had Sylvanas known he was coming? No, her simmering anger proved she had not known long enough to cool down. What had the Black Prince taken to force the Banshee Queen to play his game in order to retrieve it? Anduin doubted she would be ruffled by a trinket; only the loss of a person, someone important, would make her act beneath her cunning. As far as he knew, Vereesa was the only family she had left, and the youngest sister lived in Quel’Thalas, as a Farstrider under her order. If Vereesa had been taken, he doubted the hospitality of the quel’dorei would have been so generous. Though Anduin did not know what Sylvanas’ circle of friends had looked like in life or who could have mattered to such an extent, there was one person that came to mind; Nathanos Blightcaller.

On the night Tyrande killed him at Darkshore, the Banshee Queen had _lost it._ She used the final death of her champion as a rallying cry; the Forsaken could not exist in peace or thrive so long as the Alliance drew breath. From that day forward, everything had changed. She had been merciless and cruel — for Teldrassil was nothing short of heinous — but her resolve became so dark, that it seemed the sun could not quite break through the clouds of those days. The Alliance had been so close to victory after raiding Dazar’alor and striking key objectives against Sylvanas’ allies, but she only grew more powerful with every loss. In spite of having amassed substantial resources, of counting with the blessings of the Light and Elune and higher powers beyond, even with new allies in Kul Tiras and the addition of the _True Horde_ led by Saurfang to their ranks, all their efforts were met with a resounding defeat. In those gloomy days, even their prayers fell into the void. To that day, Anduin didn’t understand how her evil schemes prevailed or what the purpose of their end was.

He risked a glance over his shoulder. Sylvanas’ fingers gripped his chin, pulling him closer. “Too scared to speak, Wrynn?”

Anduin knew it was pointless to feign ignorance. “I am a Wrynn no longer.”

“I see that. You have been given the life of a peasant. A role suited to your peaceful nature. You should have stayed on your farm to enjoy it, but instead, you chose to come here. What for? To kill me? To make sure that when _he_ razes my homeland he cannot turn me into a banshee? One that, in the future, will come to take everything you hold dear?”

“I am not like you.”

“Still too righteous to do the sensible thing?”

“I don’t see death as the only means to achieve what I want,” he took a deep breath, rallying patience. “There are other options if you are willing to expend effort.”

“Such as preaching tirelessly to Arthas Menethil in hopes he will cling to the vaunted Light?”

“Communication is mightier than the sword.”

“Only if the person is willing to listen.”

“Consider my stubbornness a flaw.”

“A detrimental one.”

“He is willing to listen, Lady Windrunner.”

“Let me spoil the story for you, Wrynn. In the end, Arthas won’t listen. Others tried to reason with him. Uther the Lightbringer, who was his mentor, and your favorite frost mage, who was his lover. What makes you think _your_ compassion will make a difference?”

“We won’t know unless we try.”

“We?” She was offended by the implication. “Did you plan to rope the noble Sylvanas Windrunner into your salvation scheme just because everyone harped about how good of a hero she was when she breathed?”

“You speak as if you were never that person,” and he found it telling. “You were, you know. You were honorable and—”

“Foolish,” she spat with disdain. “The one you seek is dead and _I_ don’t plan to risk my people for your idealistic drivel!”

“The Banshee Queen still considers the quel’dorei her people? Does she want to save them? I thought the one who cared was dead.”

“Is that sarcasm _,_ Wrynn or did you finally grow a pair?”

“I apologize if I’m not as bland as you thought.”

She scoffed, letting him go. “What happened when you tried _talking_ with Garrosh?”

“I don’t regret trying to reason with him or wanting to understand what drove him,” said Anduin. “Everyone is motivated by something. There must be a crack through which darkness can slither through.”

“You still think everyone is inherently good?”

“I think evil is a choice,” he explained. “And once the root of why that choice is made is found, healing can commence, if the person so desires.”

“As you have said — _if_ they desire. The last thing Garrosh wanted was to heal.”

“He did, deep down. As does Arthas…”

_As do you._

“Your curiosity and zeal cost a lot of lives. You might have been a runt in those days, but even you know what his death could have prevented, after seeing what letting him live unleashed. In wanting to save every person, Wrynn, you risk losing them all. War is cold, brutal—”

“And often a choice made by those who don’t value—”

“Peace?” She snorted. Anduin imagined she rolled her eyes. “War may be a choice, but it isn’t one we always willingly make; sometimes war comes for us, so we must fight — by any means necessary — if we are to survive, and other times to survive, we must go to war.”

“Which one was it for you?”

“Survival, of course,” she said, and he was surprised by her willingness to speak. “You see, Little Lion, the honorable hero you hoped to find wasn’t as kind as you imagined. I have always been practical. When I needed to buy time, I sent my rangers ahead to fight Arthas knowing they would not live to return. I saw many butchered before me, changed into monstrosities, even so, it had to be done. In spite of knowing their names, their families, of having trained many of them myself, I gave the order. Their deaths, as well as my own, were a needed sacrifice. Our blood bought precious time for what remained of my people. Had I been like you, I would have lost Quel’Thalas entirely. You would rather save the vanguard and lose the city.”

“That was an honorablesacrifice,” he admitted. “It is a sacrifice I can understand, and everyone who has ever faced evil could comprehend it, but you plagued your soldiers at Lordaeron. What for? To leave the city uninhabitable? To not give us the victory? That was a decision driven by greed.”

“Honor this, honor that — spare me, boy! Those soldiers would have died by the hands of your army. Their fates were sealed. All I did was give purpose to their inevitable ends for the benefit of those who remained.”

The words left his mouth before he could reason through them. “Like you gave my father’s death a purpose that suited you?”

“This again?” She sighed, exasperated. “I see your stubbornness applies to more than your useless righteousness. Go on, blame me for that once more, Wrynn. I’m used to your dog barking about it being my fault, too.”

“I was inclined to believe you had no fault in what happened when I didn’t know your true capacity for evil. Then, is it wrong for me to assume you could have planned his demise to expedite your plans of turning us all into your minions?”

“Is that what the old wolf brainwashed you with? I had given more credit to your intelligence, but if this preposterous assumption is your own, I overestimated your sense.”

“You shouldn’t be affronted by the notion one could think the very worst of you when you’ve proven to lack any measure of scruples.”

He felt her shift behind him, and for a moment he thought she might grab her blade, but she didn’t. Instead, she inched closer to him, nearly resting her chin on his shoulder.

“Why yes, Wrynn. I told the Legion to overwhelm us! You caught me. I also asked them to slay Vol’jin and inflict him with a poison that would make him delirious enough to give me a role I never wanted. You have unraveled my schemes, late as usual.”

Anduin exhaled, not realizing he had been holding his breath, uncertain if he should have expected more or less from her than sarcasm. “A simple answer would have sufficed.”

“Like the one I gave you at Arathi? Apparently simple isn’t sufficient with you, boy-king. Did you not trust what your sad cow had to say about the events of that day? Or was your prophet not able to show a clear enough vision of what happened?”

“I want to know what you felt in your heart.”

“Oh, the organ that stopped beating long ago?”

This time, it was he who sighed in frustration.

“And what exactly should I have felt in my metaphorical heart, Wrynn? Pain? Loss? Sorrow? Would any of those emotions have mattered? Why waste time on useless sentimentalities?”

Anduin had thought Sylvanas respected his father in a way she seldom showed for anyone of the opposite faction. It could have been that she identified with a warrior or that she admired his prowess in battle, the way a huntress might find it more thrilling to pursue challenging game. There had been furtive glances between his father and the Dark Lady at Garrosh’s trial. Enough to make him believe that peace could indeed be bargained someday with the Horde.

“What happened that day hardly matters now,” she said. “We are stuck in this time thanks to your dragon and his whelpling friends. You are not the son of Varian Wrynn and the Legion isn’t at our doorstep… yet.”

“If you think me in collusion with Wrathion, I’m not.”

“So you say, but you are here, and he knew you would come. Though you prance around singing about honor, I know you are capable of at least primitive treachery.”

“What did he take from you that you would expose your true self to me to get it back?”

“Did you think I would consider you enough of a threat to keep my identity a secret from you?” She laughed at him. “Boy, I would let you know exactly who I was just to delight in you knowing you are totally at my mercy.”

“If you think I will come quietly and let you chain me up in some cave to await my fate, you’re mistaken, _Warchief._  I don’t know what your plans are, but I don’t intend to participate.”

“My, my. What a thought for a virgin priest to have!” She smiled against his neck. “What if a cave was not where I intended to tie you up, Little Lion? Would that disappoint you?”

“Stop that.” Anduin felt heat crawl up his neck. “Don’t act like your intentions are good.”

“How rude. Here I am giving you a splendid aerial tour of my homeland,” she flicked her wrist at the spectacular view. “So you can see what it looked like before Arthas marched through it with death and decay, yet you assign such nefarious motives behind my kindness and hospitality? I would say I’m offended, but I suppose you learned a thing or two from the war after all.”

“What will you say to excuse my disappearance? The Royal Guard knows I’m here, your rangers saw me — they all did — and I highly doubt anything you could come up with will be credible enough to satisfy you losing a close friend of the future king of Lordaeron.”

“Are you naive enough to assume he would go to war for your loss?”

“No, but losing me certainly wouldn’t entreat you to Lordaeron and I know you plan to slither your way into that kingdom to do what you couldn’t in our former lives. So, tell me, what is the point of all this?”

“I am far more interested in knowing how you intend to stop me from tying you up wherever I choose, Little Lion. This sudden bravado is _almost_ tantalizing.”

Anduin shifted to try and look at her. “Should I wrestle you off this dragonhawk, Warchief?”

Her smile was as beautiful as it was cruel. It was so disconcerting to see the living Sylvanas twisted by the malice of the Banshee Queen.

“Wrestle me? Do you think I’m less dangerous because I’m no longer Forsaken?” Her derisive laughter taunted him. “But please, Little Lion, do try. Prove you aren’t the frail boy whose crown was too heavy to bear.”

His jaw clenched. “I never thanked you for my coronation.”

“Again with this!” she hissed. “If you must know, Wrynn, I would have preferred your father. He would have been a worthy opponent to claim a victory from, but you? You made it so _easy._ You can’t hope to be a third of the man he was.”

Sylvanas knew precisely what to say to hurt him. Keen as she was, she couldn’t have missed that he had always doubted himself when it came to leading his people and carrying his father’s legacy. She was known for pushing the sorest bruises, for ripping wounds wider, but this was low even for her. He supposed he should have expected as much.

“Do you need a handkerchief, Wrynn?”

He refused to give her the satisfaction of knowing how she’d wounded him. “It will take more than your malicious words to break me.”

“Is that a challenge?” She seemed amused. “I have to wonder what it will take, all things considered. You have, at least in this respect, proven resilient.”

“My patience won’t last forever. Do you think I’ve never thought of repaying you in kind?”

“Yet here you are, trying to broker peace with a monster when you have a sizable dagger sheathed in your boot that you could run right through my rare beating heart.”

“Stop taunting me or you just might find me.”

“Oh, I’ve been trying to find you for a long, long time,” she purred.

Sylvanas ran a hand down his thigh. He stiffened, thinking she would go for the blade, and braced himself to block her, but her fingers only curled around his knee. “What good is the lion’s fangs if he is unwilling to use them?”

“You think you know much about me, Warchief, but you don’t.” He couldn’t help the bitterness that colored his voice. “You haven’t the faintest idea what I have gone through, short as my life has been in comparison. While I would never presume my pain has been greater than yours, I have known grief. I’m perfectly capable of understanding the ill feelings that follow loss, the anger that comes from facing injustice, the thirst for vengeance. I know all about those emotions. Do you think I haven’t had moments where I have been so disgusted, hopeless and despaired that I have wanted everything to be over? I am capable of dark thoughts. I have weaknesses. I struggle. But, every day I wake up and decide not to give in, knowing those feelings would lead me down a path I would resent more than the burden of living with them.”

“I congratulate you for your virtuous heart, Wrynn.”

“Don’t mock me.”

“You can’t even take a compliment?”

“Not when the words are drenched in cynicism.” Anduin closed his eyes, uttering a silent prayer, asking for his slipping patience to return. “I came here to see if I could find even the smallest fragment of humanity in you.”

“Is there any of that left in Arthas?”

“Plenty more than you show,” he said, harsher than intended. “Why can’t you believe it’s possible for him to choose differently this time?”

“No matter where he is born, he will always be the same. I knew the bastard well. He kept me close, always one step behind him,” her voice was incandescent. “He took pleasure in tormenting me. He loved that he was the cause of my anguish. He enjoyed reminding me I was entirely his; to do with as he pleased and to make me do whatever he wanted. He relished in knowing he had defeated me and proven the uselessness of every single notion I ever held dear. He ingrained that none of it mattered for in the end, he took me, my people, and desecrated us, condemning us to a fate we didn’t deserve. He allowed me to have enough consciousness and will to feel the despair of being at his total mercy, so I could understand I would never be free of him, that I would spend my miserable existence forever in his servitude. He wanted me to know that I would be his for all eternity and that my fate as that monstrosity was the reward for my sacrifice and honor. That is who Arthas Menethil truly is, but you want me to have faith that such a fiend is redeemable?”

Anduin had heard from Jaina that Arthas became someone she did not recognize as the man she had once loved and admired. Many who had known him, including Anduin’s father, could not recognize the man he had become under the influence of the original Lich King. For years, Jaina was racked with regret, wondering if she could have done more to save Arthas from taking a path so far removed from the glorious future which could have been his to seize. She had been present when he decided to purge Stratholme and while she hadn’t stayed at his side to watch him fall into madness, she had fought him once he’d become lost. She said there was not a shred of him left, not even a glimmer, in those frosted eyes that fought her with a relentless purpose to turn them all into servants of his Scourge.

When exactly, Anduin mused, did his footsteps veer him in the wrong direction? Was it truly at Stratholme? Or before? Could he have fought the darkness had someone been there to rebuke him on every terrible choice he made? Those were the very questions that had haunted Jaina enough to be used against her by Gorak Tul during the time she was trapped in Thros. Anduin could not do a disservice to her, to Arthas, to the people of Stratholme — to the world itself and even to Sylvanas — to not try to bring a different outcome. Death was not the only way to change Arthas’ fate; he felt it deep within his bones that death would not end the cycle.

**_Isn’t it time you accept you cannot keep doing things the same way?_ **

Anduin shook his head. He wasn’t sure if the words were for Sylvanas or Wrathion, but he said them with full conviction. “It doesn’t have to end the same way.”

“You mean in my victory, Little King?”

Anduin’s ire rose at such words, the memories of the war falling on him like bricks.

“You gloat in what you did?” With each sentence, his voice escalated into a roar. “How was Teldrassil different from Theramore? How are you better than Garrosh? And what of the plagues? What of the Forsaken you raised from the remains of your enemies? How was any of that different from what Arthas did here, to you and your people? Tell me, Warchief, how are you better than the very man you despise and want to kill?”

“I never said I was better than him. It was you and the rabble who decided I should be.”

Anduin tried to turn, to move enough so he could truly look at her. He had to see her face, to look into those eyes, to understand — even marginally — what in the world caused such radical change. All the questions which burned him while he was High King exploded.

“You condemned others to your fate! Why?” He felt a knot in his throat recalling the tortured screams of the night elves that he heard through the portals. “Why did you burn Teldrassil? How could you burn it? How could you dare? How could you do what was done to you? The quel’dorei were almost entirely lost the day you perished. You knew the pain of that wound, of seeing your people slaughtered to near extinction without being able to stop it! You knew the hatred that it would create, for it was your driving force in undeath, so why?”

Her voice was as cold as the winds of Northrend. “That is what I wanted.”

Anduin grimaced. “You wanted them to feel as you did?”

Her lips were a hard line, her gaze was miles away from there. For a moment he thought he saw a shadow of regret, a sliver of sorrow, clouding her piercing blue-grays. She shifted the reins and the beast lowered altitude slowly. He did not look away from her to see where she took them, but the briny scent of the sea filled his nostrils.

Finally, she spoke, her voice almost a whisper, as if she was reminding herself, reasoning about what she had done. “I wanted to inflict a wound they could not recover from like I received. Only then would they understand.”

Anduin was at a loss for words. Never had he been in such a state of perplexion. He opened his mouth to speak, but he might as well been silenced by a spell. He felt such a mixture of emotions; anger, disappointment, pity — a sense of hopelessness that took his breath away. She saw it. He did not need to speak for her to understand what he felt.

“What is the logic of caring for those who don’t have your well being in mind?” She queried as if asking about the weather. “Why spare compassion to those who will not hold a hand over their hearts to slay you when the opportunity presents itself? You wanted me to care for imperious elves who believed themselves above us? And who would come for us, sooner or later?”

He gaped at her. “I wanted you to care for the innocent lives that burned in your hatred!”

“That is quite interesting considering your choice of allies.”

“Saurfang _loathed_ what you did at Teldrassil!”

“Did he? He certainly had no trouble following my orders after that _atrocity_ or fighting to defend the Undercity from your attempts to avenge it.”

“You murdered your own soldiers and justified it with your twisted reasoning — he was done. He was sickened by you. He was broken! Outraged.”

“Don’t make me laugh, Wrynn. What the old orc felt was the weight of knowing that Teldrassil burned due to his failure.”

Anduin felt his mouth go dry.

“The true goal of our assault was inflicting a wound and Saurfang had no qualms plotting how to inflict it nor did he express any objections to my ultimate goal of taking Stormwind. The Horde never stopped me from creating more Forsaken, not even Garrosh who likened me to Arthas and was repulsed by what I was doing. They wanted what I brought. We mustn’t pretend Saurfang wasn’t aware of what I would gain from the war. He knew I wanted more Forsaken and that I would turn every single one of you humans. Even so, Saurfang plotted and executed the plan that would have led us to that very moment. Yet you, in your infinitely foolish goodwill, not only pardoned his miserable life but allied yourself with him thinking he was somehow better than me. What did you think would happen when I, the oh-so-evil Warchief, was dealt with?”

“Saurfang made mistakes, and he might have plotted, as you claim, but he changed _._ People can change, Warchief. It is within everyone’s capacity to repent and make amends. That is what Saurfang sought to do. To make right what was wrong — what he had participated in making wrong. You don’t understand it because you believe no one can revert from their sins.”

“And so, with Saurfang as the leader of the Horde, you thought you’d have your peace? I will ask you the same thing I asked the old orc. How long would that peace have lasted?”

“You won’t convince me peace is not worth fighting for.”

“Peace cannot last so long as passions override reason, Wrynn. Don’t you understand? There is a sickness in the world that will always tear open old wounds and ignite hatred within the beating hearts of those who roam this land.”

“Which is why you wanted us to be Forsaken?”

“Would that be so terrible, really?”

He tried to keep his voice calm, for at least she was talking, and listening, which was more than he could have hoped for given the Banshee Queen’s nature. “Did we ever try to heal it? Did we ever try to address the past and reconcile it? To not just set aside our differences temporarily so we could fight a greater foe in unity, but to truly overcome the past and _heal_ the wounds and the hatred that corroded us?”

“You cannot heal such emotions, Wrynn.”

“Did we try? By the light, I know I tried. I began with you, with the Forsaken. I tried to open a dialogue between us. I wanted the living to understand the Forsaken, to realize they were not monsters. I wanted them to understand they were still… _people._ Their loved ones, friends… people who did not have to remain lost to them. Genn, who had always seen the Forsaken as nothing more than abominations, saw them in a new light at Arathi.”

“Your good old wolf, yes. It is a pity his opinion of my people changed _too late_ and an even bigger pity that I will never believe he could put aside the past when hatred is all he knows.”

“That’s not true. Genn could, with time—”

“No, Wrynn, he would never change. While demons rained upon our heads, even with a truce between our factions, your mutt attacked my people and me unprovoked, at Stormheim. His thirst for personal vengeance was far more important to quench than maintaining a unified front. In a moment where we could not afford _any_ losses, your dog went rabid, wasting my time, my resources, killing my people, and forcing me to defend myself when our true enemy was right before us.”

“I would hardly call his actions unprovoked.”

“So you knew,” she chuckled bitterly. “Of course you did. You believe everything he tells you. And you wondered why I could not take you seriously!”

“The Alliance had reasons to distrust you, Warchief. Do you think I am gullible enough to believe what you were doing at Stormheim would not have had dire consequences for my people sometime in the future?”

“Further proof your dreams of peace are impossible to attain, wouldn’t you agree?”

“It is only natural that if you plan something against us, we defend ourselves. The war was raging on, as you say, but evidently, you had the resources to spare for your personal agenda. After all, your business there had nothing to do with eradicating the Burning Legion.”

“On the contrary, what I was there for had everything to do with my people’s endurance for that and all the wars to come,” she said, voice ripe with contempt. “Your mutt took _my_ people’s future _,_ so I gladly took the future from yours.”

“You went to war because of Genn?” Somehow he felt it was an excuse. “And what future did he really take — theirs or yours, Dark Lady?”

Perhaps it was madness to provoke her, but he believed the best way to break through to her was luring her out. And she had taken the bait. “Speak your accusations plainly, Wrynn.”

“I used to believe you cared about the Forsaken, that you wanted what was best for them. What happened at Arathi proved otherwise. You only saw them as tools. When you realized they might discover they could have a place among the living, away from _you_ , your response was to kill them.”

Sylvanas pulled the reins so hard that the beast cried out. “They were defecting.”

“They wanted to be with their loved ones!” Anduin pressed on, seeing he was getting somewhere. “You couldn’t stand that. Their decision to have a life elsewhere would leave you without a faction to contribute to the Horde. It would have left you vulnerable and powerless.”

“You little bastard,” she seethed. “That was your plan all along! That is why you brought Calia!”

“Princess Calia is the rightful heir of Lordaeron and those were her people. She wanted to—”

“Her people?” Sylvanas took his face, squeezing his is cheeks painfully to make him look at her. “While her people faced rejection and were hunted like vermin, where was she? While they felt tortured and worthless in their cursed existence, where was she to gather them up? She was nowhere to be found! She hid like the cowardly rat she is! She had years to come back, to look after her people, but she didn’t. She only returned when she saw how formidable they were!”

“Do you think everyone is like you? That she wanted weapons for herself? All she wanted was to reconcile them with their loved ones, to give them a choice of a different—”

“That bitch wanted to take them from me,” she howled, livid. “And you were counting on that, weren’t you? You wanted that usurper to revive a sense of loyalty to her bloodline that no Menethil deserves, much less from the Forsaken! What was the ultimate goal? Retaking Lordaeron for the Alliance? Giving it to your pathetic dog as a gift for his loyalty? No, Wrynn. I would sooner burn us all than let them fall into the filthy hands of another Menethil.”

Anduin tried to pry her hand away from his face. “Let go of me.”

She brought him closer. “Make me, imbecile.”

Sylvanas’ eyes were a storm of fury. Her lips quivered with barely contained rage. What he said got to her as painfully as any dagger might have cut through her flesh. She would have killed him, Anduin was certain, if not for the life Wrathion had in his hands that she was not willing to risk by giving in to the impulse of snapping his neck He had struck a chord in her that had been unused for a long time. He had finally broken through to her.

“Sylvanas.”

“You dare pronounce my name with that filthy mouth?” She fumed. “You better kill me while you have the chance or I’ll make sure your end is especially painful.”

The threat was real. Everything with the Dark Lady was a promise, not an ultimatum, and yet he could not feel the fear she intended him to tremble with. He observed her, taking hold of her wrist, feeling the rapid pulse beneath the pad of his fingers. No longer cold, certainly not dead, this Sylvanas — tarnished as she was by her hatred — was very much capable of a wider spectrum of emotions and that was a difference in his favor.

“Why haven’t you ended my life already? It’s unlike you to hold back.”

The wind swept her hair, obscuring her expression, but for a fraction of a second, Anduin thought he saw something close to affection _._ Not for him, no — Sylvanas would never feel anything but hatred for him — but affection for whoever she protected by keeping him alive.

“It’s Nathanos, isn’t it?” Anduin deliberately chose to speak the man’s given name, knowing it would stir what she wanted to hide. “You want to save him from Wrathion.”

Her other hand yanked the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him back. “You want me to believe you aren’t in it with him, you little worm?”

“I would not hold someone’s life over your head.”

She knew that was true. Whatever she might think of him, Sylvanas knew he wasn’t that sort of person. “I don’t take kindly when someone takes something that belongs to me.”

“He is not your possession. He’s a person.”

Her heated words betrayed everything she felt. “He is _my_ person.”

_She wants to protect him._

_Perhaps because she could not do so last time._

“He is his own person, as all Forsaken were.”

“They are _my people_. I took them under my care. I guided them. I helped them accept their reality. I built them up and gave them a purpose. I procured them a home—”

“One you destroyed.”

“They would plague it a thousand times over before letting it fall into the hands of those who rejected and turned their backs on them,” she spat. “You know nothing about the Forsaken. Not how we think or how we function. We cannot exist among the living and no amount of goodwill can change that.”

“You were the one who made that rule.”

She tossed him away from her, disgusted. “You presumptuous bastard. Suppose your plan would have worked and the Forsaken found reconciliation. The living would try to incorporate them back into their lives, and my people, eager to please them, wanting so desperately to be accepted, would go along with the ruse, perhaps to the detriment of their preservation. Do you not see? They’re constantly rotting, in need of special care and treatment. How would they explain procuring a new jaw or limb? How would the living react to the fact that such parts came from another corpse? What of the stench of death which permeates everything? How long do you think coexistence would have lasted between two radically different states?”

Anduin hadn’t heard such strife in her voice before. “We will never know.”

“I do know the answer. Sooner or later the living would not be able to tolerate, much less accept, what it entails to be Forsaken, what must be done for their preservation. You assumed, in your ignorance, that you did a good deed by trying to reconcile them to the living, but the false hope they could co-exist again is far crueler than intolerance of their very existence.”

“I might have had a solution,” Anduin shared, for the first time. He thought back to Calia — to her resurrection — and then to Derek Proudmoore, who had also undergone the same ritual and been changed _._ “There was a way to help the Forsaken.”

“You are lying. I looked for ways, in every cursed corner.”

“You looked for answers in the darkness,” he said. “In the wrong place.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Explain yourself.”

“Does it matter now? As you said, we are here.”

“You are the one who brought up the deeds of that life, Wrynn.”

“I only want you to understand they deserved to try to find their own answers, as you did.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I heard it all from Vereesa. That you tried to reconcile with her during Garrosh’s trial.”

Sylvanas recoiled as if he’d struck her. “I only needed a pawn to help slay that orc!”

“You are lying,” said Anduin, feeling it in his bones. “She regretted it, you know, though she should not have had to. She thought if she had only joined you, she might have stopped you, that you might not have wanted something so similar to what the man that cursed you did.”

Sylvanas went absolutely rigid.

“She had two sons to raise. She did not mean to leave you, but she could not leave her sons, as you asked. She chose to live, for their sake. Certainly, you can understand this?”

“You think I wanted—? You— you have no idea! Fool! I planned to slay my sisters!”

“To raise them as Forsaken who would join you in your self-imposed exile?”

She scoffed, incredulous. “My self-imposed exile?”

Anduin’s voice softened. “Wrong as the thought was, as atrocious as it would have been to follow through with such a plan, were you not led by a love for your sisters? For a yearning to be with them in the only way you thought was possible? And in the end, did sparing them also not happen because you loved them too much to inflict them with such a curse?”

“Love?” She was disgruntled by the notion. “We are not plagued by such emotions.”

“I beg to differ,” he said. “The Forsaken I met had a beautiful array of emotions. They hoped. They dreamed, even if they did not sleep. And they loved, as fiercely as any living being. Why do you pretend you _can’t_ feel when I know you can?”

“In case you forgot, I was not raised in my body, like the others. Arthas tore my soul from my corpse and transformed me into a banshee. I possessed my dead body, as I possess this living one. If only you had let my arrow pierce your useless heart, you might have experienced what that is like and what little emotions you are left with, Wrynn.”

_This is what you do — you lash out when you feel something._

“You waste your breath on me. You can’t change me. And you can’t stop me either.”

“I won’t let you kill Arthas.”

Sylvanas splayed her fingers across his abdomen, pulling him closer. Her armor dug into his back, but he did not squirm out of her hold. Her voice was a purr as she whispered. “How do you plan to go about that? You could not stop me when you were a High King, what can you do now? You’re only a farmer’s son who was merely touched by the Light so he could impress a hypocritical paladin by saving a horse his own arrogance killed.”

Anduin couldn’t help feeling the sting of failure. She wasn’t wrong, but they were no longer in that world or in that time, and Fate had changed their courses. Anything was possible. The Banshee Queen had always underestimated him and he would prove how wrong it was for her to do so.

“There is more to a lion than his fangs, Warchief.”

Up in the air, away from eyes that could witness her true self, she thoughtshe had an advantage. This woman, who had used all his virtues against him in another life, who believed she could do it again, truly thought that him remaining faithful to his convictions meant she could defeat him with the same ease or tactics. Anduin believed in change, in redemption, but if she was unwilling to see the error of her ways, he would burn her in the truth. Anduin felt the Light blaze through his veins in righteous fury.

“Get us down or I will jump.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Unlike you, I don’t fear true death,” said Anduin. “In fact, now that I have nothing to lose, I don’t fear _anything_ , Warchief.”

“I will run a blade through you before you can even turn to try _wrestling._ ”

“You won’t,” he promised. “You see, Warchief. I learned your lessons better than you think, I just apply the teachings differently. Call it, adding my personal _little lion_ touch.”

_I will not be your pawn._

The Light enveloped every inch of his body, exploding in a burst of radiant stars. He glowed with such power that the sun looked pale in comparison. The dragonhawk cried out as if it were burning. The beast dove, swirling erratically, trying to rid itself from the fire burning its back. Curiously, it did not scorch the woman riding behind him, but it did blind her. The shrill wails of the beast were deafening, as Sylvanas tried to control it, commanding it to calm to no avail. It was no use. And she could not even see where they were heading.

“Turn off your faith or I will snuff it out forever.”

He swung his leg over to the right side and looked down. They flew over a beach, close enough to a town where he was certain she wouldn’t try to kidnap him from again. His heart was pounding so fast that he thought it would burst. Never in his life had he done something so absurdly reckless. With Sylvanas still disoriented, Anduin jumped. Flipping onto his back, he uttered a spell under his breath; a white beam shot from his fingers, circling her waist, a faint sparkle of wings sprouted from her back, then with a jerk of his wrist, Anduin pulled her toward him. The Dark Lady screamed curses in Thalassian as she flew into his arms. He held her so tight she winced. Wrapping his legs around hers, their bodies were pressed together, her mail armor painfully sharp against him. They spiraled down, head first. It was madness. It was ridiculous. It was stupidly dangerous, but he could not help the inkling of satisfaction when her face melted from incredulity — that he had dared to wrestle _her_ , in his own way — to wrath for doing as she taunted. Though they were falling fast, time itself seemed to slow to a crawl. Her eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the dimming light which emanated from his body but not fully, due to the wind that howled around them.

“You—” Sylvanas could not find words. “You bastard!”

Anduin had the upper hand and she knew it. The Dark Lady did not make demands. Her pride would not allow it after she had goaded him into having the courageto end her life, to respond to her violence, to show her his fangs. Despair still filled her at the realization that it could all end there. Anduin knew that expression well for he had seen it in too many dying soldiers; it was the urgency to survive, to live. This was the humanity of the Ranger-General betraying the cold indifference of Banshee Queen. Every line of her perfect face demonstrated ire at the fact that the _little lion_ had turned the tables on her; she was the one at his mercy then. She clung to him, as if he were a plank in the middle of the ocean, in spite of herself. This was instinct, this was need _;_ it was the reflex of a living being holding on to life.

Sylvanas Windrunner wanted to live.

She who had made life her enemy, who had championed death, and chosen to become its master wanted to keep the very thing she had tried to eradicate. If Anduin were cruel, he would let her plummet to her death. She said it was a sensible thing to do. The fact that he considered her words denoted how deeply she hadimbued him with her toxicity. Letting her die was a way to stop her.

Death always was.

She had taught him that.

Just like Arthas had taught her.

_And the cycle would never end._

Sylvanas knew he was deliberating.

Here was a proud, strong woman — a fierce and implacable huntress — at the mercy of someone she had mocked for possessing the compassion needed to save her. Sylvanas was disgusted by the irony. Anduin Llane Wrynn, now Balnir, the boy playing solder, a _little lion_ , the unworthy heir of a great king like Varian, a dreamer and a fool — now a peasant — had her life in the palm of his hand. All he had to do was let go, let her fall away far enough where his spell couldn’t reach her. Anduin could let her die. He could end everything before it began. He could spare the future by ending her there, right at that moment.

_“Finish it… I deserve a clean death.”_

Her lips were not moving. Was she thinking this? But if that was the case, how could he hear it? Was she asking him to end her life? No, that wasn’t it. She wanted to live, he felt it. This was…

_“After all you’ve put me through, woman, the last thing I’ll give you is the peace of death.”_

Anduin clenched his teeth as blistering pain tore through his body and soul. Not even the Divine Bell, shattering every bone in his body, had hurt as profoundly as this. He gasped for air and found none. He prayed for mercy and was granted none. So deep was the anguish that overcame him that he could barely think _._

 _“Banshee. Thus I have made you. You can give voice to your pain. It is more than the others get. And in doing so,_ **_you shall cause pain to others._** _So now you, troublesome ranger, shall serve. Your rangers serve as well. They are now in my army. It did not have to be this way. Know that your fate, theirs, and that of your people, rests upon your choices.”_

The shriek was so powerful and it came from his throat, but no sound actually came out. His whole body convulsed in agony. Anduin’s eyes flew open, fearing he had let her go, but she was there in his arms, eyes shut with all her might, her body pressed into him. He placed his burning forehead against hers, not comprehending what had happened, but knowing it was _her pain_ that tore him asunder. She was as stiff as a statue, every muscle in her body like solid rock. She whispered something. Words he could not make out. She was not there. Not with him, not in the time they had. Sylvanas was back there, buried in the memory of her demise.

He felt her feelings in every part of his being; a never-ending, all-consuming torment. The ache radiated from her. Anduin uttered a prayer, then another, and another. Light pooled at his core, collecting and expanding. It filled the crevices of his mind, pushed out all doubt, cleansed him from malignant thoughts. The pain ebbed and calm washed over him. He channeled his power, his lips moving to whisper a single word. A golden halo encased them, slowing their fall. He maneuvered them upright, so that they stood, seemingly on the clouds. Anduin poured the peace into her, willing it to pierce through her misery. He felt her labored breath against his lips as the Light washed over her, felt the flutter of her lashes against his eyelids. They were so close he could practically feel every vibration of her heart next to his own. Embraced by the shield, the light spilled over her, illuminating her hair like liquid gold. She looked so young, for a moment totally rid of the darkness that had always hung to her like a cloak. When she opened her eyes Anduin saw himself in them, saw the awe of his own expression, recognized the admiration with which he regarded her.

**_What have you done to me?_ **

Anduin searched her eyes. How could he understand what she was thinking? How could he so easily see her discomfiture? This was the Dark Lady, masterful in the art of hiding her true thoughts, her feelings — he should not have been able to decipher the confusion she felt. Then, he understood. This was her, not the banshee, not the one Arthas created, not the Warchief, not the wounded ranger who had given her life for her people. This was just Sylvanas, the woman, experiencing perhaps — for the first time in years — a peace denied her. Her long, smooth ears were canted to the back of her head. Only then did he notice the small leaf ornament which adorned one. He felt the impulse to tuck her hair behind those ears, to get a good look at her, to see this woman — so different from the unforgiving Dark Lady who had confessed such unspeakable thoughts just moments before.

**_You are gawking, Little Lion._ **

He was. He could not help it. Anduin tried keeping his face carefully blank, but the color must have risen to his cheeks. Pressed so intimately as they were, he became acutely aware of every curve of her body. It was hardly an appropriate thought to dwell on given the circumstances.

“You haven’t stabbed me,” he said, voice hoarse, seeking distraction.

Her nose twitched. “I can remedy that.”

Anduin had no idea why he smiled, why he was filled with such certainty. “But you won’t.”

“Let’s see if your confidence holds when our feet touch the ground,” she hissed, but it wasn’t nearly as mean as she wanted to sound. “Just what were you trying to prove with this stunt? That you’re not as cowardly as I thought?”

“How rude,” he parroted. “I was merely trying to offer you some excitement in gratitude for the magnificent aerial tour, yet you assign such _nefarious motives_ —”

Sylvanas headbutted him to cut off his spiel.

“Light,” he cried, stars filling his vision.

“You chose a wrong time to grow a pair.” Then, she raised a brow. “And my have they grown.”

Anduin almost dropped her when she pushed her pelvis into him. He couldn’t stop the tremor in his voice. “Don’t— don’t do that. Please.”

“Why, Wrynn? Afraid your body can respond to an evil monster such as I?”

He bit his lip, trying to think about anything but the sensation of her deliberately grinding against him. He thought of puppies, of how soft their fur was and how adorable they were—

“My, my… the Little Lion _isn’t_ so little after all.”

_Light… she is so blunt._

He looked at her, cheeks hot as burning coals. “Are you trying to make me drop you?”

“I like seeing you squirm, like the virgin you are. Besides, isn’t this predicament your fault for holding me so close?”

“I don’t see you creating space either.”

“The Banshee Queen could fly if she so desired, but I cannot.”

This made him smile again. “You don’t want to fall?”

Her nose wrinkled with disdain. “You could cast that spell on me and spare yourself the embarrassment in your loins, Wrynn. Or have you found a taste for this compromising position now that you’ve experienced it at last?”

“What makes you think I haven’t?”

“Your face is redder than wine. Experience would lessen such effects.”

“A man can be modest.”

“A man…” she chuckled, running a finger down the length of his jaw. “This baby stubble does not make you a man, Little Lion.”

Anduin shuddered at the touch. “Please, stop this.”

“If I had known this was what it took to make you come undone, I would have spared myself a lot of trouble,” she whispered but nonetheless withdrew.

**_Why didn’t you let me die?_ **

“Because I believe you’re already changing.”

“You… how did you—?” She squinted at him. “What sort of sorcery are you pulling now?”

He shook his head. “It’s not magic. I… I felt your death. I felt your pain.”

Her face twisted into a deep frown.

“Don’t look at me that way. I didn’t intend it. I still don’t know how it was possible for me to see what you were remembering, but—”

“Now you can hear my thoughts? See my memories? What is this curse?”

Anduin saw that the distance he had closed grew wider once more. He tried to convey that it was not that he heard her, that he could invade her personal space, but—

“Drop me.”

“What—? No! I won’t.”

“No? Very well then, you leave me no choice.”

“Are you out of your mind? If you do this, you’ll—”

“Die? Perhaps. And dying here might send me back to where I truly belong.”

”You’re doing this out of spite.”

”You aren’t that special.”

Sylvanas twirled in his arms so fast that she was a blur. She thrust her elbow right into his stomach, pushing from him when he doubled over and falling away, slipping right through his hands. He could have pulled her back, made her stay, but he had pushed her too far, he felt; she needed space, perhaps time, so he summoned the Light once more, grateful it responded to him instantly. It spread, numbing him. He concentrated with all his might, willing it to reach her. The barrier encased her, slowing her fall, and he could see the fury in those eyes; he had denied her what she thought was the opportunity to return to the hell they had been torn from, one which she had created. When she landed, she drew her bow, nocking an arrow, aiming it at him. The memory of that posture brought him back to his very last moments as Anduin Llane Wrynn, to the world he had known, to the people he had failed, but like then, Sylvanas did not fire.

Instead, she tossed her bow to the sand, as well as her cutlass sword. She shed her pauldrons, her girdle, the bracers — the more restricting pieces of her polished and regal armor. As soon as his boots touched the sand, Sylvanas bolted toward him. Anduin could have summoned a barrier, but he didn't. She tackled him, the two rolling over the sand until she had him on his back. She straddled him, pinning him with her weight. Anduin grimaced as her hands tightened around his neck. The turmoil in her eyes as she struggled with herself was monumental. There was hesitation in her touch, tight as the fingers choked him. She wanted to end his life, but she could not bring herself to do it.

Her voice was cruel, unforgiving, but hollow. “I told you that your end would be painful if you didn’t kill me. I despise you. You, your goodness, your compassion. Why aren’t you fighting me? Why are you just letting me take your life, you imbecile? What must I do to make you understand? What must I take from you? If your life is not enough to lose, then what will be?”

_You are the one who doesn’t understand._

“Fight me!” she yelled. “Defend yourself!”

He gasped for air, clutching her wrists.

_Light… she will kill me…_

Sylvanas screeched in frustration and released him. Anduin coughed, taking in deep breaths, nursing his neck, certain he would bruise. She slammed her hands on the sides of his head, fists burying into the sand. She was panting harder than him as if it had taken all her strength to not do what he knew she had wanted to do for so long.

“I could have killed you.”

“I wanted—” he croaked. “I wanted y-you to make the choice… not to.”

“Your heart will be your demise in this life, as it was in the last, you fool.”

“Can’t we just try? Just once?”

She bit the inside of her cheek furious. “He won’t change.”

“I’m asking you to give him one chance. This time, it’s a chance for all of us.”

“You’ve squandered yours just now.”

“Sylvanas?”

Anduin’s heart lurched upon hearing that voice. The woman on top of him froze, ears drooping. Anduin could not stop himself. He reached up to her, took hold of her face, made her look at him so that he could plead in a desperate whisper.

“Give me time, it’s all I ask.”

She looked at him, burning embers in her eyes. Anduin turned his head and saw him; Arthas Menethil, the Prince of Lordaeron, with dozens of rangers in tow led by Lor’themar Theron. Why had he come? He had promised to wait for his return, for him to bring tidings of Sylvanas. The eyes of the prince cut through him, falling to hands that held the woman Arthas yearned for. The vibrancy of his passion colored his face, twisted the worried expression into one that shadowed betrayal.

“Anduin?” There was a reproach in the tone. “What is—? What is happening here?”

A small crowd of elves had gathered behind them, murmuring among themselves. He could not make out their words, but their stares were distrustful. He had made a spectacle in the sky, after all.

“We saw what appeared to be an explosion all the way from Silvermoon,” said Lor’themar. “Sylvanas, can you explain what happened? Lady Liadrin said you went ahead to meet with the Royal Guard, and I was told—”

“I had to see for myself,” was all the Ranger-General said through gritted teeth.

“See what?” Arthas drew closer to them. “And what happened here?”

Anduin tore his eyes away from the prince and once more tried to convey his plea to her.

“I resuscitated him,” said Sylvanas.

Slowly, she slid away from him and stood to her full height. The Ranger-General turned to her audience. Though her face was the definition of pleasantly surprised, her nails dug into her palms, betraying the true hatred that reverberated from her soul. It took her several moments to compose herself enough to speak and when she did he marveled at the smoothness of her tone. She was truly a master of deception.

“Arthas,” she paused as if the name had been poison to swallow. By omitting his title, she showed everyone there was a closeness, a bond, and he could see the way it melted some of the prince’s mortification. “What an unexpected surprise _._ I did not think my letter would prompt you to come along with your sister.”

_Did she write to him?_

The letter must have arrived while he had been traveling with the Royal Guard.

“I could not refuse your invitation when I had intended to extend one of my own,” he said. Arthas knelt by Anduin’s side, but his eyes were on Sylvanas. She seemed to like seeing him in that position, at her feet. “What happened up there?”

“I had one of those spells,” said Anduin, before the Banshee Queen could interject. “I’m sorry. I have caused a problem for you.”

Arthas’ voice was gentle. “Why are you sorry? You cannot help your condition. I told King Anasterian and he was... sympathetic. All is fine.”

Anduin could tell it was taking every bit of Sylvanas’ control to not run the cutlass sword a few feet away through Arthas’ guts.

“I never expected for your friend to be an old acquaintance of mine,” she said.

Anduin nearly choked.

Arthas bore a glare into his forehead. “What?”

_Don’t do this, Sylvanas. Don’t lead him down that path._

“Long ago, the priest and I met.”

“Anduin never mentioned it… not even once.”

“He could not tell you about someone whose name he didn’t even know! To him I was just—” she turned to Anduin. “What was it that you called me?”

Arthas’ face lost all color. “The Dark Lady?”

Sylvanas’ smile was dazzling. “Yes. That was it, wasn’t it?”

Arthas eyes beseeched Anduin. He wanted him to deny it, to say it wasn’t so because the prince still believed that the feelings that tied him to the mysterious Dark Lady were the same that bound him to Sylvanas; love, passion — lust. How could he convince Arthas that it wasn’t so? How to explain what drove him without unraveling a truth the prince would not believe?

“Anduin?” Arthas waited, holding his breath.

This was what Sylvanas was good at — division. The friendship between him and Arthas, the bonds that might have served to help steer him in the right direction, those were the ties she targeted with vicious purpose. She wanted to break them apart and show him that he was not a good person and she knew exactlywhere to exert pressure. Anyone could see the jealousy that darkened Arthas’ eyes. She would give the prince a chance, fully intending to help him fail.

“Yes… that’s right,” said Anduin, the admission inevitable. “I knew her as... the Dark Lady.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I am alive. These keep getting longer and longer... don't they? Thanks for reading. Forgive me if my replies are late... I'm in a hermit phase and I almost just want to lock this story in a friend's only journal.
> 
> Thank you to the Warcraft Writer's Guild — you ladies are bomb-tastic, I love you.


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